


Neverwander

by Indiannahjones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indiannahjones/pseuds/Indiannahjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 9:40 Dragon, leading into the events of Inquisition.  When Hawke is called to the frontline in the fight for Thedas, she leaves Anders in charge of their children with instructions to bring them to the safety of the Avvar tribe in the Frostback Mountains and wait there for her return… but even the simplest of plans have ways of going horribly awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arlathan Forest

Hawke woke to the sound of someone tapping on the bedroom window.

It was a light sound, one that would normally have been barely audible to the human ear, but Hawke was a light sleeper, and as such it took very little to wake her. Since the birth of her children, she had developed a seemingly superhuman hearing ability, as she needed to be on the alert at the slightest sign that something might be amiss with either of her little ones. The tapping at the window continued as she quietly coaxed herself up out of bed, padding across the chilly wooden floor of the shared bedroom, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. The previous night had been a long one for both of them, using a combination of magic and practical means to seal up every cack and crevice in the makeshift little house's foundation where the cold night wind might seep through. Easing open the window as quietly as she could manage, Hawke took a surprised step back as a large, black crow came flapping through, letting out a loud, unceremonious _caw_ before coming to land heavily in the middle of their bed.

"Wretched bird," Hawke sighed, moving over to the bed and sitting down beside the crow, which was now preening its rumpled black feathers self-satisfactorily. It was a fat old crow, dishevelled, but with the confidence of a much younger and sleeker crow than itself. Picking up the bird, Hawke moved it into her lap, ignoring its caws of protest as she detached the rolled-up letter tied neatly to its leg, before letting it go to wander back across the bed again. Ever since their flight from Kirkwall following Anders' destruction of the Chantry tower and Hawke's terrifying faceoff against the maddened Knight Commander Meredith, the couple had been very careful to keep as few people as possible in the know of their current whereabouts. At the moment, the only ones who knew how to get in contact with them were Bodan and Sandal, who had stayed behind in Kirkwall to tend to the family estate. That meant that this note had to be from them, and was likely something urgent, as Bodan was nothing but careful when it came to sending correspondence to Hawke and Anders.

Despite his amicable nature, Bodan was a shrewd man, and he knew only too well the direness of the consequences should any of their correspondence be intercepted and the couple's hideaway exposed.

As Hawke unrolled the letter, reading its contents, the crow waddled over to where Anders slept, hopping up onto his arm and peering down curiously into his face. Anders moaned, sleepily brushing the unexpected weight off his arm, causing the crow to jump back with a surprised caw of protest. It cocked its head, affronted, before jumping back up onto his arm again, but this time, rather than just observing, it bent down, taking hold of a lock of his hair in its beak and giving a sharp tug. "Stop that," he murmured, brushing the crow away again, but this time, the crow reacted quickly, giving the hand reaching up to push it off a sharp peck, causing Anders to sit straight up in bed, startled and clutching his hand. When he saw what had so rudely woken him from his sleep, he gave a frustrated grumble, picking up the pillow his head had been resting on and tossing it at the bird, who cawed loudly in protest, flapping its ragged wings as it moved backwards on the bed out of the line of fire.

"Blasted bird," he swore, bringing his hand up to his mouth to suck on the sore spot irritatedly. Then, turning his attention towards Hawke, he craned his neck, trying to get a better look at what she was staring at so intently. "What's that?" he asked, interested. "Another report on your uncle? How is Gamlen faring these days?"

"Fine… I think," Hawke returned, distracted. "I'm not sure. I haven't… heard about him in a while…"

Sensing something wrong, Anders pulled himself across the bed, coming to sit on the edge of the mattress beside his wife as she stared down at the slip of parchment between her hands. "Let me see that," he offered, prying the message out of her numb fingers. Conjuring a small, soft orb of magelight, he held it up to the message, squinting down at the parchment, barely able to decipher the words in the dim light of the rising dawn. The writing on the note was messy and cramped, but he still managed to make out the gist of it: ' _Thedas in trouble. Hawke needed immediately. Will give more details on arrival._ ' The message was short but concise, and it left a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Anders extinguished the magelight, looking up at Hawke again as she took the small letter back from his hands, staring down at the message forlornly. He had never seen her look this way before, almost as if every light in her eyes had gone out. She stared down disbelievingly at the letter between her fingers, running the pads of her thumbs distractedly over the parchment, as if expecting it to disappear at any moment and for all of this to simply have been a bad dream.

"What will you do?" Anders asked her, quietly.

Hawke hesitated, uncertain, staring silently down at the damning note in her hands. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, she shrugged. "Head to where I'm needed, I suppose," she answered, fairly. "I'm not sure what else I can do. It's not like I can just say no."

"Why not?" Anders argued, evenly. "You don't owe them anything, Hawke. You never have. If you say no, if you don't go back… what will they do? What _can_ they do? Banish us again?"

"Kill us," Hawke suggested, her voice eerily deadpan, her eyes never leaving the parchment. "Harm our children. Harm our families."

"Your family," Anders corrected. "I haven't any family left but you."

"Now is not the time to argue semantics, Anders," Hawke told him, turning to look at him, frustrated. Though she had grown used to his quirks, her husband could still get to be infuriatingly self-righteous from time to time. Letting out another tired, put-upon sigh, she turned her attention back to the note in her hands, frowning down at the chickenscratch handwriting before folding the message in half and setting it aside on the nightstand, not wanting to look at it any longer. "The children are going to be up soon," she said, pushing herself up from the bed to start towards the door of the bedroom. "I need to start getting breakfast ready. You know how grouchy Madeline gets if she doesn't get fed first thing when she wakes up."

"I can't really say that I blame her," Anders answered, honestly, trying to hold back a broad, puckish smirk at the sentiment. "If I got to put my mouth on your breasts every morning I'd be pretty excited about it, too."

At this, Hawke stopped short, turning to look at him again, her eyes wide, one hand pressed up against the door, as if in an attempt to shield their children's innocent ears. "You… are terrible," she told him, giving a soft, disbelieving laugh at his boldness. Then, moving away from the door again, she crawled back up into the bed, slowly, seductively, before moving over to where he sat and pushing him back into the pillows again, much to his delight. "The children can wait just a little bit longer," she told him, smiling as she unfastened the first few buttons of her top, letting it slide down her shoulders to expose her bare chest, perky in the chill forest air wafting in from the still-open bedroom window.

"I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you," Anders told her, unable to keep a satisfied grin from his face. As he leaned in, pressing his lips to the pale line of her neck, beginning to kiss his way down to her bare breasts, the moment was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a loud, raucous _caw_ , causing them both to look up at the noise, startled. The raggedy crow sat on the edge of the bed, staring at them intently, creeping in towards them until it stood too close for comfort, watching them with beady, interested eyes. Hawke quickly covered up as Anders reached forward, grabbing hold of the bird, causing it to give a loud _caw_ of protest. Then, getting up angrily from the bed, he crossed to the bedroom window, depositing the bird unceremoniously outside and shutting the window before the bird could even regain its equilibrium to begin flying again. Satisfied with a job well done, Anders turned back towards his wife, who still sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed, holding her shirt together.

"Shall we continue?" he asked, hopefully, moving forward towards the bed again.

Hawke hesitated, making a face, before finally shaking her head and beginning to button up her shirt again. "I should really go look after the children," she said. "Alastair will be wondering where his breakfast is, and I shouldn't make Madeline wait any longer, either." Running a hand back through her short hair in an effort to tame it, she stood up from the bed again, making her way back towards the door of the bedroom and opening it, before pausing to look back towards him again over her shoulder. "Maybe we can do this some other time," she suggested, helpfully.

"What other time?" Anders asked, disappointed, but his only answer was the sound of the door closing behind her as she left to make breakfast. Letting out a heavy, frustrated sigh, he turned, glaring over towards the bedroom window again. "Bloody bird," he muttered, before getting out of bed as well and following Hawke out the door and into the house beyond.

* * *

"Eggs _again_?"

Alastair frowned, dropping himself down at the cobbled wooden table and staring down forlornly at the food on his plate. Beneath their feet, the family chicken clucked contentedly, bobbing its head as it wandered around, searching for any bugs that might have crawled in through the holes in the house's foundation while looking for shelter from the cold Arlathan Forest outside. Anders sat down beside his son, watching as Hawke set the last of the plates down on the table in front of them before joining them at the table, herself. She set Madeline cheerfully down in her lap, causing the little girl to clap her hands gleefully before letting out a squeal of approval at the breakfast laid out before her. "Eggs," Madeline announced, reaching out to grab hers off her plate, only to be stopped by Hawke gently taking hold of her hand and unclenching it, causing the eggs to drop back into place. Taking up a small mouthful on the edge of her flat, spoon-like wooden implement, Hawke guided the morsel over to Madeline's mouth, holding a hand securely under her chin in case she spilled any, and let her eagerly take the bite, humming happily as she chewed contentedly on the finely-scrambled eggs.

Anders smiled at the heart-warming sight, unable to help himself, before taking up his own utensil and starting in on his breakfast as well. Only Alastair did not seem interested in eating, instead staring despondently down at the plate of eggs in front of him as if it had done him some grievous wrong. "Madeline likes eggs," Anders informed him, speaking around a bite of his own.

At this observation, Alastair made a face, grudgingly spearing the eggs in his plate with his makeshift wooden fork. "Madeline like everything," he countered, dragging the eggs morosely around his plate, actively avoiding eating them. "She's too dumb to know the difference."

"Alastair," Anders scolded, frowning as he leaned his elbows on the table, looking over towards his eldest child. "That's not very nice of you to say at all. Apologize to your sister."

"Sorry, Madeline," Alastair mumbled, keeping his eyes down as he spoke, too humiliated at having been scolded to make eye contact. Madeline giggled in return, showing off her tiny, sparse teeth as she reached forward, grabbing a handful of eggs from her plate, and stuffed them into her mouth, chewing noisily as half the eggs tumbled down her chin and into her lap. Hawke instantly reached forward, retrieving the messy morsels and returning them to the little girl's plate, where she simply reached forward, grabbing them again and stuffing them back into her mouth, only to have more fall into her lap and onto the floor.

"She eats like you do, Anders," Hawke observed, wryly, causing Anders to look up, choking on his eggs in surprise.

"I don't—" he started to argue, but was cut off by a large chunk of scrambled eggs falling off his fork and into his lap, effectively silencing him. Hawke covered her mouth with her free hand, letting out an unladylike snort of laughter as Anders blushed bright, hot pink, picking up the bite of eggs from his lap and returning it dutifully to his mouth. "She's a little like me," he admitted, sheepishly.

"Like father, like daughter," Hawke agreed, before bringing another spoonful of eggs to Madeline's mouth and watching her chew and swallow.

Having finished their breakfast, it was time to begin research on where would be the safest place for Anders to take the children while Hawke was fighting on the forefront. Alastair had been given a handful of chores to do to keep him from asking questions, while Madeline, still hungry after only a few successful bites of scrambled eggs, rested contentedly in a sling across her mother's chest, drinking her morning milk. One of Hawke's hands held her eighteen-month-old's head in place, allowing her to suckle, while the other traced thoughtfully over the lines of rivers and roads that wound across the faded map of Thedas they had spread out over the kitchen table. They had researched long through the morning and on into the afternoon, poring over maps by the dim, misty light filtering in through the front-room windows, talking every so often in hushed voices, not wanting to wake their sleeping infant. The intensive conversation was broken only by the occasional platitude, fleeting whispers of affection, a gentle kiss on Anders' stubbled cheek, before they inevitably returned to their integral planning, neither wanting to come to a conclusion, but both also knowing it was inescapable.

It was only after a long, sombre discussion, with every potential hideout on the map marked by eating utensils taken away one by one as they were eliminated by logic, that they finally decided on the Frostback Mountains as a suitable place for the family to hide out until the worst of the conflict blew over. Both Anders and Hawke had heard tell that Gherlen's Pass was said to be safe for travel year-round, making the journey into the mountains at least feasible, while the hardy Avvar people who lived up in the mountains were said to have built holdings out of stone so well fortified that outsiders hardly ever even bothered trying to seek conflicts with them. Further logic dictated that the mountain's many treacherous mountain passes would keep them safe from the Darkspawn until Hawke could return and find them to take them home again, and if Anders' old friend Oghren's name still carried any weight in the dwarven city of Orzammar, it meant they had the possibility of getting supplies and other necessities for the time they would spend in hiding.

With their course of action decided, Hawke had retired Madeline to her crib, careful not to wake the infant as she moved her from her sling, before the couple had quietly returned to the bedroom to allow Hawke to change into her long-retired armour and finish packing her knapsack for the journey ahead. The chest where her armour was being kept creaked with disuse, and Hawke waved a hand in front of her face to dispel the thin cloud of dust that had wafted upwards at its opening. Dragging her lightweight armour out of the trunk, she laid it out tenderly on the bed, staring over it with a look of almost detached nostalgia. Coming up behind her, Anders rested his thin, calloused hands on her shoulders, taking in a long, deep breath as he stared down at the familiar leather armour as well.

"I remember the first time I saw you," he told her, speaking in a low, intimate voice in her ear. "I wanted you so badly, then and there. But you were interested in someone else, do you remember?"

"Isabela," Hawke returned, her voice distant. "I was with Isabela when I met you."

"Right, Isabela," Anders agreed, moving his hand to press a gentle kiss against the curve of her shoulder. "Isabela the pirate queen. I didn't think I stood a chance against that. And realistically… I shouldn't have." He laid another kiss on her shoulder, this time inching ever so slightly closer to her neck. "Whatever made you want to be with a man like me when you had a woman like her?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper in her ear.

"To be fair, it wasn't my first choice," Hawke informed him, a wry, puckish smile beginning to creep across her face as she spoke. "I only really went with you because Sebastian Vael wouldn't have sex with me."

"You're such a liar," Anders chuckled, the sound a low, carnal purr in his throat. "You love what I can do." Sliding his hands down her shoulders, he pressed a soft kiss to the base of her neck, his gentle lips trailing their way up its length before moving around to her ear, kissing all the way up and around the edge. Guiding one hand around her slender waist, he slid the other one down into the front of her trousers, his slim, agile fingers quickly finding their way down past the lining of her underwear. Hawke sucked in a short, quiet breath, trying her hardest to stay discreet so as not to disturb the children, before sliding an arm back around his neck, letting him continue for a moment, before turning around to face him, allowing him to guide her down onto the bed. Once she was lying down, he let his hand slide the rest of the way forward, until she could feel his middle and ring fingers pressing in on her, slowly, before finally slipping inside her up to the second joint.

Hawke bit her lip, stifling a quiet whimper of surprised pleasure as a shock ran up the length of her spine. Anders worked slowly, pushing in in rhythmic intervals as he kissed his way up her neck, lingering eagerly at her jawline, then the spot behind her ear. Hawke pulled his face in to hers, needing him, kissing him hungrily as he began to push deeper, now to the knuckles, causing her to give a soft, high-pitched cry of ecstasy. Her teeth dragged across his bottom lip, tugging back gently as he tried to pull away from the kiss, coaxing him in for another. Retrieving his hand at last, Anders turned his attention instead towards the fastening of Hawke's pants, starting to untie the cord holding the waistline in place. Once it was sufficiently loosened, he eagerly pried it apart, taking special care not to pop the delicate seams as he dragged her pants and underwear down to her knees.

He started with kisses, but quickly changed tactic, gaining enthusiasm as he began first to run his tongue up the length of the split, and then to suck. Hawke let out a moan, reaching down a hand to run her fingers fervently through his straw-red hair, her other hand clenching into a fist around the freshly-made bedcovers as she felt a shudder of pleasure vibrate down her thighs. Letting out another stifled cry, she moved her hand to his, entwining her fingers with his as he continued to work between her legs, feeling the cool, reassuring weight of his wedding ring against the skin of her fingers. With one last, finishing, tantalizing play of his tongue, he moved up over her again, wiping his wet, pink lips with the back of his hand as he leaned down to kiss her neck, before finding himself pulled back to her lips again.

Her fingers gripped hungrily at the hair at the back of his neck as she kissed him, deeply, before finally pulling away from his lips, out of breath. "Miss me already?" she whispered, pressing her forehead to his, their noses touching as she gave a soft, adoring chuckle, her eyes quickly becoming lost in his.

"More than you know," he answered, before moving in to give her another long, needing kiss.

She returned the kiss, allowing it to go on for as long as it could, before finally pulling his face away again, staring into his eyes, solemnly. "I have to go," she told him, her voice suddenly more solemn than before. The smile had faded from her face now, replaced with a weariness, a sadness he was unused to seeing there. He knew why she looked that way, but it did not make it any less painful to see her so unhappy.

"I know," he said, nodding understandingly. He paused, staring into her eyes, before finally letting out a soft, low sigh. "I don't want you to," he told her, quietly.

"I know," she told him, lifting a hand to run it gently along the line of his stubble-ridden face. Just then, the soft sound of Madeline babbling wafted in past the closed door of the bedroom, causing them both to look up again, pulled out of the moment. It had been so easy to forget about everything else but each other, about all their responsibilities, but they quickly found themselves drawn back into reality as Anders moved aside, allowing Hawke to sit up, pulling her trousers back up to her waist and securing them in place again. "Help me get this on," she told him, indicating towards the leather armour still sitting on the bed. He was quick to comply, getting up and moving around to where the armour sat, picking up the first piece and helping her slip it on over her head before securing it snugly into place around her back. The breastpiece fit more tightly than before, and Hawke gave a noise of protest as it jerked against her tender breasts, but gave no other indication of discomfort, not wanting to upset her husband any more than necessary.

"Be sure to bring the chicken with you," she reminded him as he slipped one armguard onto her forearm, lacing it securely, before pulling on the other armguard and lacing it tightly in place as well. "She'll provide you with eggs, and, if all else fails, meat, though I'd prefer for that not to be the case, if at all possible. As little as he'd admit it, I think Alastair has grown quite fond of that chicken."

"I don't doubt that's true," Anders agreed, half-jokingly, pulling a stiff leather calf-guard up her leg and lacing it firmly into place. "It's the only one of us around here he isn't rude to on a regular basis."

"He's six," Hawke reminded him, giving a soft, patient laugh. "And besides, I seem to remember someone else who could be quite abrasive when he didn't get his way."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Anders told her, lacing the second calf-guard into place with a soft grunt of effort.

"Is that Andraste's face you've got shoved between your legs, there?" Hawke mimicked, her impression of her husband sorely lacking but still oddly recognizable. "How can you support the plight of slaves but disavow the plight of oppressed mages, you hypocritical heathen? Did your dead husband enjoy playing dirty games in the bedro—"

"Stop, please, you've made your point," Anders laughed, embarrassedly, standing up to press his lips to hers and silence her playful tirade. "Your husband is a world class bastard. Have you any other astute observations to make while we're on the subject of kicking the mage while he's down?"

"Who, me?" Hawke asked, pressing a cheeky hand to her chest, acting surprised. "Never. And besides, who am I to complain?" Framing his face with her hands, she brought him in for another gentle kiss, smiling up at him as she pressed their noses together again. "My husband may be a world class bastard," she told him, "but he makes some damn fine children."

"One of whom is currently needing feeding, I think," Anders informed her as Madeline's burbling reached their ears again. "Or changing. I'm not sure which, honestly. It all sounds the same to me."

"My boots are in the corner," Hawke told him, pointing towards them across the room. "That's all I still need. Then I'll be ready for battle." Her tone was light, but her words were heavy, almost too heavy for either of them to stand. Swallowing hard to hold back the lump in her throat, Hawke watched with detached interest as Anders dutifully retrieved her boots from the far corner of the room, returning moments later to finish helping her into her armour. "Once we pack my satchel, I'll head out on foot," she told him, rationally. "You and the children can take the horse. It will be much easier than having to carry them whenever they get tired. You should reach the Mountains in half the time on horseback."

"It's too dangerous," Anders answered, shaking his head as he slipped one boot tenderly onto her foot. "I don't want to draw attention to us, if at all possible. What with this war going on, there's too many frighteningly desperate people out there just _looking_ for travellers on horseback to rob." Sliding her other boot on, he gave it a short, sharp tug, making sure it was secured snugly on her foot. "I don't want to take that chance," he told her, getting up from the floor to sit back down on the bed beside her again. "Not when I've got the children. Besides, my cloaking spells can't cover me, two children, and a horse. I'm lucky if I can sustain it to cover just my staff in public. Anything more than that would drain me quicker than I can afford." Reaching over, he rested his hand reassuringly against her thigh, offering her a tired, encouraging smile. "You go ahead and take it," he urged her, earnestly. "You'll likely be needing it for… whatever it is you're doing out there on the forefront. Riding into battle or what have you."

"Oh, nothing too dangerous, I don't think," Hawke answered, good-naturedly, returning the soft, heartening smile as her hand moved down to cover his, her fingers curling reassuringly around the edge of his palm. "Just battling a few Darkspawn, perhaps. Maybe a few demons. An ogre or two, if I'm really lucky."

"You're going to be the death of me," Anders told her, laughing softly, before leaning over to kiss her gently on the cheek. Madeline's burbling reached their ears again, and this time, they both stood up from the bed, ready to attend to their child's needs. Making her way to the smaller side bedroom, Hawke retrieved the infant from her crib, cooing reassuringly as she laid her out on the low chest at the foot of Alastair's tiny, makeshift bed, beginning to change her soiled linens as Anders looked on, intrigued.

"You're going to have to learn this skill while I'm away," Hawke told him, seriously. "She's probably going to need changing every couple of hours, so be prepared to stop every little while to do that. And bring plenty of clean cloths when you go, so you don't have to depend on sources of water to wash the same one to reuse. You won't always have somewhere to clean your clothes, and you don't want to have to depend on that to avoid situations like these." Tying the dirty cloth up with a neat knot, Hawke set it aside before pulling a clean cloth from one of her pockets and beginning to tie it securely around her daughter's waist and bottom. "She's old enough that she doesn't _need_ milk, but make sure she gets enough to eat otherwise," she continued on, picking up Madeline under the arms before resting her securely against her hip. "And water. Make sure she drinks plenty of water. And—don't give her anything she can't easily chew. If it's not soft enough for you to easily push your fingers through it, it's probably too tough for her to eat, and I don't want her choking on somethi—"

"Hawke," Anders told her, resting his hands reassuringly on her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. "It's all right. We're going to be all right."

Hawke nodded, wetting her lips, understanding, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. Then, suddenly, unable to hold it in any longer, her face crumpled into a look of despair, and she let out a soft, unhappy sob of breath. "I don't want to lose any of you," she told him, her voice shaking as a single tear skated down her cheek. "I don't want to do this, Anders. I don't want to go. I know I have to do it, I know I have to go, but…" Shaking her head, she bit her lip, looking down at her daughter, who stared up at her with wide, curious auburn eyes, her hand stuffed thoughtfully into her mouth all the way up to the knuckles. Sniffing, Hawke pried Madeline's hand away from her mouth, coaxing it back to her side, before leaning in to press a gentle, loving kiss against the little girl's forehead. "Be good for Daddy, okay Madeline?" she asked, sniffing, trying to keep more tears at bay.

"Why Mommy crying?" Madeline asked, kicking her plump little legs through the air as she stared intently up at her mother, worriedly. Hawke swallowed back a lump in her throat, taking another deep, shaky breath, before using her one free hand to quickly wipe the tears away from her eyes, forcing a hopeful smile to her face as she looked down at her baby girl.

"Mommy's not crying, baby, see?" she said, sniffing and shaking her head. "Mommy's just happy because you, Daddy, and Alastair are getting to go on holiday for a while! You all were in need of a vacation, don't you think? Somewhere scenic. Lovely mountain view."

"It's only for a little while," Anders added, hopefully, causing Madeline to look his way now. "We'll all be back together before you know it. You, me, Mommy, and Alastair. All one happy family on holiday in Ferelden." Then, turning his attention back towards Hawke, he indicated over his shoulder with his thumb towards the front-room of the tiny ersatz house. "I'll go ahead and start packing your knapsack," he told her, his voice lower as Madeline turned her attention back towards her mother, intrigued. "Give you two a bit of time."

"Call Alastair inside as well, would you?" Hawke asked, readjusting the redheaded toddler on her hip. "I want to be sure to see him as well before I go. Don't want him thinking I left without saying goodbye."

"Of course," Anders agreed, understandingly, before leaving her to her own devices, hearing the gentle sound of her sobbing following him all the way to the door.

* * *

The satchel Anders had packed for Hawke sat ready to go on the kitchen table. A small, warming fire flickered dimly in the fireplace, throwing soft shadows across the kitchen despite the misty sunlight still peering in through the tiny windows. Picking up her pack, Hawke hoisted it onto her shoulder, allowing Anders to check one last time to ensure that the buckle in the front was securely fastened so nothing would fall out along her journey. Then, satisfied the pack was secure, Anders had followed Hawke out the front door of the house and around back to the tiny, fenced-in paddock, where their single black horse stood tied underneath a small overhanging, grazing peacefully on the last remaining dregs of what had once been a bushel of hay. Lifting the heavy leather saddle from where it sat draped over the side of the enclosure, Hawke placed it over the back of the horse, warranting a soft, surprised neigh, before she set to securing the straps around his stomach, making sure the saddle was tight enough that it would not slip while she was riding.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Anders implored her, quietly. He watched as she strapped her heavy satchel onto the side of the saddle, yanking the fastenings twice to make sure they were securely attached. Then, finished securing the pack in place, Hawke shook her head, letting out a short, hard huff of breath as she stared at the ground, stolidly refusing to meet his gaze.

"Yes, I do," she told him, slowly and solemnly. "You know I do. Everyone is depending on me, Anders. Thedas, its people… they need me. They _all_ need me." Crossing to the railing again, she unhooked the cobbled-together bridle from around the fencepost, before bringing it back to the horse and slipping it securely over his face.

"And what about your children's needs, Hawke?" Anders asked, pointedly, causing her to stop short. "Do they need you as much as Alastair and Madeline need you? What has Thedas – what has their government ever done for you that you're now willing to give up your life for them?" Here, he scoffed, taking a step forward towards her, now beginning to get righteously angry for the first time since the arrival of the fated note earlier that morning. "Made a fugitive out of you and your entire family?" he continued on, indignantly. "And now they have the absolute _gall_ to call you back into action? To ask you to risk your very life for a cause you don't even believe in?"

"Anders…" Hawke shook her head, turning away from the horse to face her husband again. Her expression was earnest, pleading, almost desperate as she took a few steps forward towards him, taking his slender hands in hers and bringing them up to her face. "What do you think will happen if Thedas is not protected, Anders?" she asked him, quietly, pressing her cheek imploringly into his palm. "If the call to arms goes unanswered, if the enemy armies go undefeated? If I don't go, who's to say there will be a Thedas left for all of you once all of this is done? For all of us?"

Anders opened his mouth, prepared to answer, but then, realizing he had nothing to say, he simply closed it again, letting out a soft, worried sigh. "I just don't want something to happen to you out there, Hawke," he finally told her, quietly, stroking her cheek tenderly with the pad of his thumb. "Where I'm not there to help you. Where I can't reach you. I don't want to live without you. I _can't_ live without you. None of us can." Passing his thumb under her eye, he wiped away a stray eyelash, still clinging to her face despite her tears from earlier having long been dried. "We need you to stay safe, Hawke," he told her, earnestly, holding her gaze firmly with his. "We need you to come back home. Promise me you'll come back home."

This time, it was Hawke's turn to falter before realizing she had nothing to say in return. Coaxing his hands away from her face, she turned, stepping up into the stirrup of the saddle, and from there onto the back of the horse, before pulling back once on the reigns and looking down at her husband one last time. "I have to go," she told him, solemnly. "Keep them safe. I'm counting on you. I'll meet you in the Frostback Mountains when this is all over." Biting her lip then, she paused, her eyes growing suddenly distant as she stared down at him, as if realizing for the first time just how long it would be before she would get to see him or her children again. "…I love you, Anders," she told him, barely above a whisper. Then, turning her horse away from the house, she kicked her heels into his flanks, coaxing him into a steady trot as she made her way into the thick, hazy forest towards the edge of the woods, heading for the nearest port town. Anders watched, unmoving, as her receding form became smaller and smaller, until it finally vanished into the mist, swallowed up by the denseness of the Arlathan Forest.

"I love you, too, Hawke," he whispered back, too late for her to hear.


	2. Brynnlaw

Everything seemed eerily quiet with Hawke gone, and for a while, it was difficult to believe it was even real. The note from Bodan still sat on the bedside table where she had left it, folded in half, untouched. Anders was too afraid to move it, afraid that if he acknowledged its presence, he might actually have to face the reality that his wife was gone, and this was what had done it. For days after she left, he could not help but linger, unwilling to admit that things were changing, that they had changed, that they might never be the same way again. Madeline did not even seem to notice her mother's absence at first, but Anders could tell from the uncomfortable, cursory glances he kept receiving from Alastair every time the now-smaller family gathered at the table to eat that the boy understood fully that his mother had gone away, and not just on some holiday, as he was sure she had told him.

Alastair was a smart boy, smarter than either of them gave him sufficient credit for, and even as Anders returned his untrusting gaze with a forced, faltering smile, he could not help but feel that no amount of coaxing would convince him that things were going to be all right again. He was too observant for that, and, as much as Anders hated to admit it, the boy seemed much more vigilant to the changing way of things than even he dared to be.

Two nights later, Anders awoke to the smell of smoke, and he knew instantly, in that moment, that he could no longer deny that things had changed for them forever.

Darting up out of bed, he quickly ran to the window, prying it open to let some of the smoke out and looking around frantically outside. Fragments of burning wood and thatching dripped from the roof of the house, and the entire makeshift paddock he had set up for their horse was entirely consumed in flames. From his window, he could see what had caused the destruction – two stray arrows, still ablaze, stuck out of the woodwork, one lodged in the overhanging structure above the horse's feeding trough, the other pinned just above his window, where the flames had quickly spread to the dry, forested roof, spreading from there to overtake the entirety of the house. The sound of men's voices could be heard shouting in the distance, the faint echoes of some sort of scuffle, which he guessed had to be where these had come from, unfortunate strays loosed from a wildly aimed and likely desperate bow. Coughing and wiping his stinging eyes, Anders staggered away from the window, bringing his thin shirt up to cover his mouth and nose as he rushed from his room into the front-room of the house, and from there into the children's bedroom.

Madeline was sitting up in her crib, her tiny hands clenching the edge of the enclosure, red and swollen from squeezing, while Alastair, his eyes streaming, coughing heavily, tried desperately to pick her up and move her without knowing how. Snatching up his daughter under her arms, Anders balanced her haphazardly against his thin hip as he bent down, picking up Alastair unceremoniously around the waist as well, and began to back out of the room, unable to hold his shirt over his face with his children taking up both of his hands. The fire had already begun to overtake the front-room, the sap-sealed windows blazing as the flames crept steadily towards the dry wooden floorboards, and as Anders reached the front door, he could hear the sound of the paintings he and Hawke had gotten done of their children, hung up on the wall with twine, hitting the floor with a loud, hard clatter. Kicking the door open, Anders rushed outside, moving a safe distance away from the house before finally falling to his knees, exhausted and out of breath. Alastair, released from his grasp, crawled away on his hands and knees, gagging and coughing, while his father cradled Madeline against his shoulder, patting her back to help her cough as well.

Turning to look back towards the house, Anders wet his dry, cracked, soot-stained lips, before finally turning his attention towards Alastair and holding his baby sister out towards him for him to take. "Keep her safe," he told the boy. "I'll be right back." Before Alastair could protest, Anders had headed back towards the house, intent on salvaging whatever he could for the now inevitable journey ahead of them. It was no easy task to see through the wreckage the fire had caused on their tiny lean-to; by now, almost the entirety of the house had been consumed by flames, blocking the entryway to the children's bedroom and ravaging a good half of the compact front-room. Grabbing his staff from where it leaned against the fireplace, Anders turned, making a quick survey, before realizing with a feeling of despair that simply too much damage had been done for any of his magic to fix. He was a healer, a spirit mage, and he knew that even if his ice spells could combat the flames currently devouring every exposed inch of the tiny wooden house, he could do nothing to replace what else had already been lost to the fire.

Dropping the leather strap tied to his staff over his head, he let its weight settle on his shoulders, before turning his attention now towards the bedroom, where everything of value lay. The first thing he grabbed was his coat, patting out the embers that had fallen into the dry feather pauldrons before slinging it hurriedly over his shoulders and turning his attention towards the master bed. He gave a wracking cough as he all but slid onto his knees beside it, reaching to cover his nose and mouth with one hand as he dragged a crudely-stitched leather satchel out from under the bed with the other. Having retrieved the satchel, Anders looked up, noticing that the slip of paper Hawke had left on the nightstand had caught fire as well and was beginning to burn away, and, reaching out quickly, he grabbed it, blowing out the flame and sparing what was left of the note, before tucking it securely into his inside coat pocket and getting to his feet again, moving as quickly as he could to find whatever else was left in the house to salvage.

Despite his best efforts, the haversack was still agonizingly light when he was finally forced to give up his plight and flee the house again, pushed out by the billowing smoke and flames that had spread so far into the structure that barely anything remained. Alastair was watching eagerly for him by the time he returned, his auburn eyes wide as he balanced a still-hiccupping Madeline in his lap. "Did you save the chicken?" he asked, hopefully, craning his neck to see what his father held under his arm.

Anders froze, feeling his heart sink like a stone down into the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry, Alastair," he finally admitted, shaking his head as he dropped the half-empty satchel down on the forest floor in front of the children. "I… I didn't see her. She was already gone. I tried, but there was nothing I could do." In truth, despite Hawke's very specific request for him to bring her along, he had completely forgotten the chicken until this moment, but now that he had realized his mistake, it was far too late to go back inside and fix it. "I'll get you another chicken," he assured the boy, offering him a sooty, apologetically hopeful half-smile. "Once we get to where we're going. Once we get to the first major city, I _promise_ I'll get you another one."

"I don't want another chicken!" Alastair argued, setting Madeline aside a bit too forcibly as he pushed himself up to his soot-streaked bare feet. "I want _that_ chicken – I want _my_ chicken!"

"Alastair, _no_ ," Anders scolded, gently, scooping the boy up around the waist as he began furiously towards the burning house again and holding him protectively against his chest. Alastair shouted, angry and indignant, and pounded a weak, blackened fist against his father's feathery shoulder, but to no avail. His fruitless anger quickly gave way to sadness instead, and he let out a bitter, heart-wrenching sob as he wrapped his arms around his father's neck, burying his soot-streaked face in his shoulder. Anders grunted, softly, as he adjusted the boy against his hip, one hand wrapped protectively around his thin legs, before letting out a thin, tired sigh and bending down to pick up Madeline as well. He held her awkwardly against his remaining free shoulder as she balanced her weight against his thin ribs, bending her knees to better hold on to the contours of his body as she took hold of the edge of his pauldron, holding on tight.

"Daddy's face dirty," she observed, astutely. Anders faltered, unsure what to say in response, before finally leaning down to press a gentle, relieved kiss to his daughter's forehead instead. Then, with one last, painful glance back towards what little remained of their beloved family hideaway, he turned away from the towering flames, starting instead into the misty forest, his path lit by the blaze that continued to engulf the only place he had ever felt comfortable enough to honestly call home.

* * *

Despite being beyond exhausted, himself, Anders had continued walking for most of the night, still carrying both of his children in his arms, who had quickly fallen asleep barely minutes after escaping the burning house. When he, too, finally became too drained to carry them any further, he was quick to find a makeshift shelter for the three of them underneath an expedient rock outcropping, and set about fashioning a tiny camp for them to sleep in. One child slept on either side of him, sharing a single, patchwork blanket Hawke had awkwardly sewn together when she had discovered she was expecting Madeline. Anders had teased her about it at the time, about the uneven angles, the mismatched tiles, the stray threads poking out of the edges where she had not known how to properly tie them off, but now that it was all they had to protect them against the bitter cold, he found himself appreciating the ugly thing more than he had ever thought possible.

Despite being unattractive, it was deceptively warm, and he regretted all the times he had chaffed Hawke mercilessly about its dire lack of aesthetic as he pulled his two children in to his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around each of them as they closed their tired eyes, waiting for morning to wake them. The morning came much quicker than anticipated, the sounds of birds stirring from their hideaways and beginning to cheerfully sing reaching Anders' ears and rousing him from a fitful slumber. Opening his eyes, he quickly checked to make sure both children were still at his sides, and when he saw that they were, he sat up from the ground, rubbing a hand across his aching spine as he looked around, making a note of their immediate surroundings. The forest was just as misty in the day as it was at night, and though the sunlight streaming in through the trees made it much easier to see the path in front of their feet, it did not make the nearly-identical forest trails on every side any easier to differentiate.

Anders' knowledge of nature was limited at best, having lived in a ramshackle barn as a child, a stonework tower for the first half of his life, and a treeless slum the second, but he remembered having once been told that moss always grew on the north side of the trees. He figured this might make it at least a bit easier to infer which direction east was from that indicator, if nothing else. Just then, Madeline gurgled sleepily at his side, causing him to look down, and when he did, it was to see her smiling up at him, looking just as sweet as ever. Her tiny, rosy face was still streaked with soot from the fire, despite a full night of rubbing it off into his poor, dirty jacket, and Anders quickly licked the pad of his thumb, reaching down to wipe what ash he could away from her cheeks. Madeline gave a silvery giggle, reaching down to grab hold of her feet and pull them playfully up halfway towards her head. "You are a mess," Anders chuckled, brushing a few stray flecks of ash from her strawberry-red hair before attempting to clean her face with his thumb again. "What would your mother say if she saw you looking like this? Or any of us, for that matter. She would probably kill us, that's what. Or, maybe not you, but at least me."

Thinking on this, Anders smiled again, retrieving his hand as he realized that his current work was likely the best he could do without a cloth and a source of water. "Probably just me," he amended his statement, shaking his head as he picked up the little girl under the arms. "You're much too cute to be killed."

"Hungry," Madeline informed him, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, you are?" Anders asked, raising his brows in feigned surprise. "Well, I'm sure we've got something for that around here. Give me a moment, my love, and I'll see what I can put together." Balancing Madeline against his waist, he pushed the covers off his legs, leaving Alastair still sleeping as he made his way over to the half-empty satchel at the foot of the blanket. Opening the flap, he rummaged inside until finally he came across a small loaf of bread, which he fetched out and dropped into his lap, along with a flame-licked canteen of water. He remembered vividly Hawke's warning about not letting Madeline eat anything he could not easily push his fingers through, and so set to eager work tearing the bread in half with his one free hand, scraping the soft, fluffy insides out of the half-crust, and dousing each small bite with a drop of water to get it just moist enough that it could be easily swallowed. Finished with his labour of love, he picked up the first piece, giving it a quick shake to get rid of any excess water, before steering it into Madeline's mouth and watching her eat, making sure she could swallow it down before offering her another.

As soon as the soggy bread hit her tongue, Madeline made a face of disgust, but still managed to swallow before sticking her tongue out in disapproval. "Ick," she reported, dissatisfied.

"I know it is, darling," Anders sighed. "But it's the only thing we've got right now. Once we get to the city, I'll be sure to buy you something better to eat, I promise, but as it is right now—"

"Maybe you shouldn't have killed the chicken, then," Alastair's sleepy voice mumbled, accusingly, causing both Anders and Madeline to look over in surprise. Sitting up from beneath the covers, Alastair rubbed his eyes, letting out a wide, loud yawn, before blinking a few times, still trying to convince himself to wake up fully. "Maybe we should have prepared better," he added, another pointedly critical suggestion. "Then maybe we'd have things to eat other than soggy bread."

"I did not _kill_ the chicken, Alastair," Anders reminded him, frustratedly, picking up another piece of damp bread and coaxing it into Madeline's reluctant mouth. "The chicken died in the fire. There was nothing I could do. I said I was sorry about the chicken. There's no need to keep bringing it up."

"Eggs," Madeline added, astutely.

"No, darling, no more eggs," Anders informed her, regretfully. "Only bread for now. Eggs later, though. I promise I'll get you eggs when we get to town."

Madeline puckered her lips, dissatisfied with this answer, but did not resist the next bite of soggy bread as he held it out for her to take. Once she had finished swallowing it, she licked her lips, as if hoping there might be some better lingering taste there, before looking up at Anders again, curiously. "Where Mommy?" she asked, her amber eyes wide, expectant.

Anders paused at this question, considering how to answer. It was not entirely unanticipated that Madeline would notice Hawke's absence, considering Hawke was usually the one in charge of feeding and changing her, but he was still not quite sure how to tell her what was going on in terms she would be likely to understand. "Mommy went away for a little while," he finally told her, picking up another bite-sized piece of bread and giving it a shake to get rid of any excess water. "She went away to keep us safe. She'll be back, though. Don't worry."

Madeline accepted the piece of bread when it was offered over to her, chewing thoughtfully with what few teeth she had before swallowing without complaint, her eyes never leaving her father's face. "Mommy go?" she finally asked, moving her thumb to her mouth to begin sucking on it. Anders was certain she was still hungry, as she had eaten barely anything, but he was not going to force her to eat if she wanted to take a break.

"Yes," he told her, evenly, turning to glance back towards Alastair, who was watching the two of them intently from the outcropping, listening in on their conversation. "Mommy went away. But just for a little while. They needed her somewhere else." Turning his attention back to Madeline then, he smiled down at her, hopefully. "Mommy is important," he told her, enthusiastically. "Mommy is a _hero_."

Hearing this, Madeline smiled around her thumb, showing off her tiny, pearly teeth. "Mommy good hero?" she asked, beaming brightly, her big, round eyes lighting up elatedly.

Anders chuckled at his daughter's expression, unable to keep a smile from his face. "Yes, my darling sparrow," he told her, readjusting her more comfortably against his waist. "Mommy is a _very_ good hero." Letting her get situated against his shoulder, he brushed a few strands of angel-soft strawberry hair from her eyes before scooping up the last few pieces of soggy bread and throwing them out to the forest for the birds. If she got hungry again later, he figured, he could make her more watery bread, but carrying something like that in their pack ran the risk of infecting all of their currently sparse provisions with mildew. Getting to his feet, he picked up the satchel, crossing back to the makeshift camp and gathering up the blanket, before folding it as tightly as he could manage and stuffing it into the pack, finally securing it. Satisfied that they were ready to begin walking again, he slung the satchel over his shoulder, picking up his staff from where he had rested it against the side of the rock outcropping, and turned his attention back towards Alastair, who was busy trying to catch a large, noisy toad.

"Alastair, don't touch that," Anders scolded, causing Alastair to drop the animal unceremoniously back to the forest floor. Holding out the hollowed heel of the bread loaf towards the boy, he watched as Alastair wiped his hands on his nightshirt before accepting it and eagerly tearing into it, too proud to admit his hunger but also too hungry to bother trying to be subtle about it. Rumpling his son's overgrown, dirty-red hair, Anders pulled him in towards him, causing Alastair to protest and struggle until he was free again. "We should get moving," Anders informed the two children, letting out a heavy, weary sigh as he stared out into the seemingly endless forest, dreading the painstaking journey ahead. "We still have a lot of ground to cover before nightfall. We want to try to make it into town as fast as we can. Before we run out of supplies, if possible."

Alastair groaned at this revelation, causing both Anders and Madeline to look down at him, surprised. "I don't _like_ walking," Alastair moaned, rolling his head back onto his neck, causing his shaggy bangs to fall into his eyes. "Can't we stay here for a while? I'm sure the fire's died down by now. We can just go back to the house and fix it."

"It doesn't work that way, Alastair," Anders told him, gently. "We can't go back. We have to go forward. And we need to keep moving. We don't want to be out in the open when night falls. It's too dangerous." Seeing the discouraged look on the young boy's face, Anders took a deep breath, contemplative. "But," he finally added, thinking of something. "You can use my staff to help you walk, if you like." Holding out his staff towards Alastair, he watched as the boy eyed it warily, seeming almost afraid to take it, before finally, cautiously, reaching out with one hand and gripping the sleek, wooden contour. It was a heavy staff, sturdy and dependable, hollowed out in the middle to make room for a long, thin quartz and metal rod that had been driven through the heart of the wood, giving it its carefully-tested balance. The wood on the exterior had been stained, treated, and polished to the point that it almost appeared like black metal, and the head of the staff was carved in the likeness of a three-headed hydra, each head adorned with meticulously detailed onyx spines and tiny mother of pearl teeth.

Alastair took the staff from his father, admiring the grandeur of the stave he never thought he would be allowed to hold. "We walk," Madeline suddenly insisted, cutting the moment abruptly short, and, at this interruption, Alastair looked up at her again, nonplussed, all the enthusiasm he had shown at getting to hold his father's staff leaving him as quickly as it had appeared.

"Easy for you to say," he told her, bitterly, leaning casually on the staff as if he had carried it a thousand times before. "Seeing as you're not doing any of it."

"Alastair, be nice to your sister," Anders reminded him, scolding him gently. "She's just trying to help."

"Sorry, Madeline," Alastair muttered, hanging his head in shame.

* * *

Despite closely rationing their limited supplies and scavenging what they could from the forest, itself, the tiny party was almost completely out of provisions by the time they reached the edge of Arlathan Forest several days into their journey. From there, it was another day and a half until they finally spotted the city of Brynnlaw peering over the horizon. Anders had not been in a city this size in several years, not since Alastair was born, and could not shake the sensation that everything about it, from the buildings to the roads, felt almost disproportionately large. Still, hungry, tired, and desperately in need of fresh changing cloths for Madeline, the family was quick to make their way to the centre of town, to the busy, bustling marketplace. Once there, it took very little searching for them to find fresh food and water to buy, as well as a dressmaker who was only too eager to sell the haggard-looking father her leftover cloth straps for next to nothing, much to Anders' surprise and delight.

The sun was sinking low on the city by the time they finished replenishing their provisions. Anders knew only too well how dangerous cities could be at night, far more dangerous than any forest, but his attempts to purchase a room for the night from the only inn and tavern in town were cut short when he discovered, much to his dismay, that so much of their limited funds had been spent on supplies that day that they no longer had enough to pay for lodging. Thinking quickly, he asked the barkeep instead if he could simply buy three cups of water, two for his children and one for himself, and, once the man complied, Anders handed Alastair his cup of water before shepherding the boy over to a low table sitting in a corner of the tavern and sliding in next to him, hiding him from view against the far wall. He figured that as long as it looked like he was patronizing the establishment to some degree, the barman would have no reason to eject him and his children, and if he could only stay awake through the night, Madeline and Alastair might be able to get some much-needed sleep, however unpleasant, on the bench in the bar where they sat.

For a while, it seemed as though his plan would work, as Madeline had already drifted off to sleep against his shoulder by the time he waved the barmaid over to ask for a refill on his water. He could feel the barman's suspicious eyes boring into him, but he pretended not to notice, instead sipping patiently at his water tankard and hoping his air of confidence would convince the barkeep to leave him and his family alone. Making another slow, visual sweep of the tavern, Anders took another long, steady sip of water, pulling his quickly-fading son in towards his chest and allowing him to get as comfortable as possible. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, the little family found themselves joined by a stranger dropping himself down uninvited into the seat across from them, leaning in towards them on his leather-clad elbows and staring at them eagerly from across the table. He seemed to regard the haggard-looking father and unkempt children with a look of almost excitement, startling Anders out of near-exhaustion and causing him to draw his children in more protectively to his chest, feeling his metaphorical hackles begin to rise at having been so suddenly dropped in on.

"Can I help you?" Anders asked the stranger, his tone heavily guarded. He had no interest in feigning courtesy when his children's safety was in question, and though this man did not look particularly dangerous, with his broad, enthusiastic smile and his big, bright green eyes, Anders also could not help but notice that the stranger was an elf. While his own experiences with elves were few and far-between, none of them were particularly pleasant, and between Velanna, Merrill, Fenris, and Orsino, the mere sight of a pointed ear was enough to put him on edge. Still, apart from the elven background, he could not help but admit that the stranger was arguably attractive, with his swarthy skin, sun-bleached blonde hair, and shapely, straight-bridged nose, very different from the broad, flat, almost Romanesque elven faces Anders had grown accustomed to while living in Kirkwall. It was almost enough to make him want to trust the man, but he still could not help but feel a sense of wariness about this stranger's sudden, apparently intensive interest in him and his two small children.

"We met once before, you and I," the stranger informed him, evenly, watching his face with eager attentiveness. "You were in the company of that, uh… the Champion, yes? The one with the… the hair, and the eyes."

"Well, she certainly does have both of those," Anders returned, equitably, unsure whether to be amused or perturbed by the stranger's monstrously vague description of his wife. "But… I'm afraid I don't remember _you_. You have to forgive me, friend, my memory is a bit… unreliable."

"Because of that, uh… the thing, in your head," the stranger agreed, making a vague, indicative gesture towards his own temple. "I remember that, yes."

"Right… yes," Anders answered, frowning, now a bit more suspicious than he had been before. While the vagueness of the stranger's initial claims to remember him had been easy enough to brush off as a simple case of mistaken identity, this reference to what he could only assume was Justice was a bit more difficult to overlook. "I'm sure I recognize your face," he told the stranger, accommodatingly, speaking up again. "Somewhere in the far reaches back there. Or perhaps your voice. It's a very distinct voice you have, but… apart from that, I'm afraid I don't remember you."

"I am Zevran Arainai," the stranger reminded him, helpfully, perking up at the mention of his own melodious name. "Master assassin. Or, former master assassin. Now I mostly just do as I please."

"You're an assassin?" Alastair asked, fascinated, instantly perking up from near-sleep at the word.

" _Former_ assassin," Zevran corrected, pointing towards him, indicative. "I used to be associated with the Antivan Crows, but not anymore. Not for a long while, yet. Thanks to your father, and to his Champion, I am a little bit freer of their thralls, but I must always be vigilant, even so. I am free to trust the three of you here, however, because this one…" Here, he pointed instead to Madeline, who was now awake as well, staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes and sipping eagerly from the edge of her cup. "This one is far too young to be a Crow," he informed the three of them, matter-of-factly. "The other one, he is just old enough to begin his training, but this one has no fine motor skills. She would be of no use to them just yet, not even as an apprentice."

"I'm old enough to be an assassin?" Alastair asked, brightening even more at this news.

"No, you are not," Anders corrected him, sternly, pulling his shaggy head in protectively towards his chest. "Nobody here is going to be an assassin." Sighing, he turned his attention tiredly back to Zevran, who did not seem perturbed in the least by his observation being so quickly shot down. Instead, retrieving his hand again, he folded it across the edge of the table, staring at Anders, pragmatically.

"I do not fear men who travel with babies," Zevran informed him, rationally, shaking his head. "It is far too complicated a ruse. Babies require too much attention to simply be used as a cover. Where do you put them when you are not using them?"

"You make an excellent point," Anders agreed, unsure what else to say to this highly bizarre but strangely well-polished line of thinking. "But, if you are an assassin, and if you are on the run—"

" _Former_ assassin," Zevran corrected him.

"Yes, regardless," Anders pressed on, frowning faintly. "What in the world are you doing here, in the middle of a populated city? You're certain to draw more attention hiding in plain view than you would in the wilderness somewhere. You don't exactly blend in with the crowd, if you don't mind me saying so."

"I do not mind at all," Zevran was quick to answer, sitting back delightedly in his seat. "In fact I find it quite flattering you think so. I, myself, hail originally from Antiva City, the capital of this beautiful land of Antiva. I am merely stopping by here on my way to somewhere else. You see, I heard a rumour on my travels that I may very well have an older, half-human, half-sister…" Here, he paused, his puckish grin growing wider at the unusual combination of words. "It is – half this, half that… it's funny, yes?" he asked, laughing faintly, before waving his hands dismissively and shaking his head, returning to his original train of thought. "But, no, it is serious," he said, decisively. "My sister, or not my sister, perhaps, is living in the White Spire, or so they say. The Circle of Magi here in Antiva. I was on my way to see her, but I figured it could not hurt to spend the night here in Brynnlaw before continuing my journey towards the Spire tomorrow morning. Get some rest on a real bed for a change. But…"

Here, he paused, the cheerful smile fading from his face a bit as he looked between the two young children, who were both staring at him with wide, fascinated eyes, hanging onto his every word. "Well, I could not help but notice you three sitting in the corner here," he admitted, opening his hands towards them, honestly. "Do you not have a place to stay, my friends? I have a room, if you would like to use it. I do not require much, myself. For me, the room is only a nicety, and, seeing the three of you… I realize I do not need this room nearly as much as you do."

Anders frowned at the sentiment, his thin fingers curling irritatedly around the edge of his wood-carved water tankard. The mention of the White Spire was enough to put him firmly back on edge, and the stranger's immediate hospitality so soon after the reference to it did nothing to calm his nerves. "The sentiment is appreciated, _friend_ ," he informed the elf, coldly, a bit more harshly than necessary. "But my children and I are not a charity case. Besides, why should I trust you are who you say you are? For all I know, you're some spy of the Templars, stopping by on your way back to the Tower to pick up some more unwitting mages to bolster dwindling Circle numbers. There have to be plenty of deserters after what happened in Kirkwall. Mages won't stand to be barricaded up forever, blindly obedient to Templar rule."

"You travelled with the Warden once, yes?" Zevran asked, folding his hands in front of him on the low wooden table. "The Hero of Ferelden?"

At this, Anders paused, taken aback by the unexpected change of subject. "The… queen?" he finally asked, clarifying. "Ferelden's queen?"

"Yes!" Zevran exclaimed, excitedly, pointing towards him. "I forgot. I always forget. Yes, the Queen. You travelled once with the Queen, did you not? I travelled once with the Queen myself – well, before she was the Queen, back when she was still the Hero of Ferelden." He paused here, sucking his lower lip, thoughtful, his green eyes straying to one side as he pondered over this. "She is still, I think, the Hero of Ferelden, when she is not busy being the Queen," he added, amending himself. "Or perhaps at the same time. I am not sure. I do not know how those titles work. I have never held a title, myself."

"They overlap," Anders confirmed.

"Oh, they do!" Zevran beamed, his full attention back on Anders now. "Okay, yes. That is good. But! You did not answer my question." Leaning in further towards him across the table, Zevran raised his brows expectantly, offering him a wide, genial, hopeful smile, causing Anders to rock back ever so slightly in his seat in return. "Would you like to stay in my room for the night?" he asked again, eagerly.

"I—" Anders started to answer, but was cut off by the feeling of Alastair tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. Looking down, he was surprised to see the boy staring up at him, his young face pleading.

"Please can we stay with him, Father?" he asked, softly. "I'm so tired. I just want to go to bed."

Anders hesitated, frowning slightly as he stared down at his son, conflicted. As little as he trusted this smooth-talking stranger, despite the man's claims to have been a travelling companion of the queen of Ferelden, he also knew that there was no other way he would be able to afford a bed for the night for his children. Generosity like this was hard to find in Thedas these days, which did nothing to quell the feeling that this could very well be some sort of trap, but, finally, he turned his attention back to Zevran, shrugging his feathered shoulders, defeated. "It seems I don't have much of a choice," he admitted, giving a soft, tired sigh. "I appreciate your hospitality, stranger… but I'm still not entirely sure I trust you. What exactly are you wanting in return for your kindness?"

"I require nothing in return, my friend," Zevran informed him, pushing himself eagerly up from his seat on the low bench. "I merely wish to help those who do not have as much as I. But – come, come with me now. I will show you to my room. You three can have the bed, of course, and I will sleep on the floor. Oh!" Here he turned around again, clasping his hands in front of him, as if suddenly remembering something important. "And if anyone asks, I am a prostitute, and you are paying me for my services," he added, seeming a little too enthused about spinning this story. "That should do well to prevent anyone from disturbing us anytime during the night."

"What's a prostitute?" Alastair asked, getting quickly to his feet as well and following his father up the stairs after Zevran. Anders frowned at the question, trying to determine the best way to answer, before finally placing a patient hand on his son's head and letting out another heavy, tired, put-upon sigh.

"It's not important, son," he told him. "You'll… figure it out when you're older."

* * *

"It goes down, up, around… and then you tie it like this. You see?"

The sound of conversation roused Anders from his sleep, and he slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times as he tried to remember where he was. Looking down to one side, he lifted his arm, expecting to see Alastair sleeping peacefully at his side, but, much to his surprise, his son was nowhere to be seen. Anders frowned, somewhat concerned, but figured it was entirely possible that Alastair had gotten up before him in order to find a latrine to use. However, Madeline had no such ability to get up and explore of her own accord, and so when he looked down on his other side where Madeline had been the night before only to find that she was missing as well, a shot of sickening panic coursed through him, and he instantly sat up straight, clutching the moth-eaten tavern-room covers as he looked around with wide, panicked eyes for where his children had disappeared to.

The sound of Madeline's giggling suddenly reached his sharp ears, and he quickly turned to see Zevran and Alastair standing in a corner of the room, huddled conspiratorially over a low, wooden table, their backs to him as they discussed something he could not hear in hushed voices. Throwing the covers away from himself, Anders moved quickly across the room towards them, pushing Zevran forcibly out of the way before grabbing his daughter up off the low table. He ignored the look of surprise on the elf's face as he all but bared his teeth, defensive, holding the little girl as far away from his thieving, leather-clad hands as possible. "How _dare_ you touch my child," he insisted, propping Madeline agitatedly against his waist as he stared at their elven host in livid disbelief. "Nobody told you you could touch my children! After all that kind and helpful mumbo-jumbo you fed us last night, now I wake up to find you, over here, t… _touching_ my little girl?!"

"I was only changing her," Zevran confessed, honestly, holding up his hands in a show of innocence. "I saw that she needed to be changed when I woke up, so I went ahead and changed her for you. Alastair asked me to show him how to do it, so I did. That is all I have done, I promise you. I had no ill intentions for your children – I _swear_."

"I'm…" Anders fumed, pursing his lips as he readjusted his little girl against his waist, before turning his gaze to Alastair, and then back towards Zevran again. "How do you know my son's name?" he asked, still not entirely placated from before.

"He told me," Zevran answered, fairly, reaching out a hand to place it amicably on Alastair's shoulder.

"Don't touch him," Anders repeated, bristling as he reached forward to swat Zevran's hand away from Alastair's shoulder. "Don't touch either of them."

"I am sorry, my friend," Zevran apologized, holding up his hands again, taking the ire with dignity. "It will not happen again. But, you see, Alastair, he told me all about your plight. About how your home caught fire, forcing you to flee, all after your wife left to go join the fight against the Darkspawn." Dropping his hands from the air again, he pressed one of them thoughtfully against his abdomen, his expression turning suddenly solemn. "It is a noble cause, the one she fights for," he added, reverently. "I have considered joining the fight, myself, but I have… unfinished business to attend to, first."

"Your sister," Anders returned.

"Yes," Zevran agreed, astutely. "Among other things, but yes. My sister, whether real or not, is my first priority. After that, we shall see how things go." Turning his attention back down towards Alastair, he started to reach forward to tap the boy's arm again, before remembering that he was not allowed to and instead merely pointing over towards a small stack of supplies sitting, almost unnoticeable, in a far corner of the room. "Would you be so kind as to get my map and coin purse for me, my young friend?" he asked, causing Alastair's expression to light up instantly at having been asked to participate. Zevran watched with an amused half-smile as Alastair moved quickly past his father towards the far end of the room, then, propping his hand on his hip, he took in a long, deep breath, before letting it out in a low, tired sigh. "It is a good, strong name, Alastair," he commented, addressing Anders once more, causing the mage to look up at him again. "Named after our King, yes? King Alistair?"

"Almost," Anders answered, watching as his son rummaged eagerly through the assassin's things. "Not _exactly_ the same, however. We wanted it to be a little different, give him a sense of individuality. Didn't want him to feel pressured that he had something to live up to." Taking a deep breath in, he turned his attention towards Zevran again. "I knew a woman, once, who was named after a famous warrior," he told him. "She never stopped resenting her name. We didn't want the same for Alastair."

"Ah, yes," Zevran agreed, understanding, before turning his attention towards Madeline and pointing a playful finger in her direction, miming poking her cute button nose from across the distance separating them. "And the little one, the… Madeline, she is…?"

"Just a pretty name," Anders confirmed, giving a faltering half-smile, still not completely at ease but slowly beginning to get there. "No great, inspirational story there."

"That is story enough, I think," Zevran assured him as Alastair finally returned to the gathering, carrying a rolled-up map in one hand and a small coin purse in the other. Holding them out towards Zevran, he smiled as the assassin took them both carefully from his hands, thanking him with a rumple of his dirty-red hair. Anders opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again, reminding himself that the assassin meant his son no harm. "Thank you for your help, my young friend," Zevran told the boy. Then, turning his attention towards Anders again, he indicated for him to hold out his hand, which Anders did only after a moment of wary hesitation. "Take this coin," Zevran instructed him, lowering the small, leather purse into his outstretched hand before manually closing his fingers around it. "Do not hesitate to spend it. You will need plenty of water for crossing the Drylands. It is better to be safe than sorry, and better to have more than not enough."

Then, turning his attention back towards the small wooden table, he spread out the map on top of it, smoothing it once before pointing decisively towards a blotch of ink indicating a city overlooking a long, winding river. "Once you are out of the Drylands, you will make your way to Seleny," he instructed Anders, helpfully. "And from there, follow the river to Antiva City. Once you get to Antiva City, use the rest of this money I gave you to take a ship to Jader, in Orlais. From Jader, it is only a skip, a hop, and a leap to your destination in the Frostback Mountains."

"A hop, a skip, and a jump?" Anders corrected, inquisitively, pulling the small coin purse he had been given uncertainly in towards his chest.

"Whichever way you want to do it," Zevran answered, genially, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. "Now, you should probably head out on the road before it gets too late, yes? Don't want the day to get away from you again."

Anders faltered, still holding onto the coin purse, unsure what there was to say to this unexpectedly kind stranger. Despite his own consistently prickly nature, this self-proclaimed assassin had continued to be nothing but compassionate to him and his children. Clenching his hand more protectively around the small leather pouch, he offered Zevran a thin, tight-lipped smile of thanks, before accompanying it with a subtle nod of his head. "Thank you for all your help… friend," he told him, honestly.

"It is not a problem," Zevran assured him, returning the smile, before pointing towards Alastair with a short laugh. "And perhaps when this one is older, he can come back and I can teach him to be an assassin, yes?" he asked, half-jokingly.

Anders returned the tired laugh, turning to look down at Alastair, who was staring up at him, expectantly. "I… don't think that's going to happen," he said, earnestly, shaking his head. "If for no other reason than that I highly suspect his mother would kill me if it did."

"Ah, that is too bad, I think," Zevran returned. Then, crouching down to Alastair's level, he smiled up at the boy, puckishly, before drawing a tiny, pin-nosed dagger from his belt and holding it out for him to take. "This will be our little secret," he told him, offering Alastair an impish wink as he eagerly took the knife, turning it over excitedly in his hands. Getting to his feet once more, Zevran gave a short, satisfied sigh, brushing off the front of his tunic before returning his gaze to Anders. "Do not worry about the boy," he told him, indicating with his head towards Alastair, who was looking for a place to stash his newfound weapon. "I was his age when I started learning how to work with knives. Besides, that knife is practically useless to anyone who does not know how to use it. The worst he can do is prick himself with it."

"I hope you're telling the truth," Anders told him, frowning down at the knife in his son's hands.

"My friend," Zevran returned, affronted, puffing out his chest and indicating himself with both hands. "You wound me with your continued distrust. When have I _ever_ lied to you?"

"Not yet," Anders answered, bluntly, looking up at Zevran again.

At this, Zevran paused, thoughtful, before quickly deflating, seeming amused by the answer. "That is… a good answer," he conceded, shaking an entertained finger at Anders. "And one I will keep in mind, if ever we should meet again. But I must be off to the Spire, I think, and you… on your way to Seleny." Propping his hands on his hips then, he took one last, perceptive look at the little family, before taking in a deep, readying breath. "Good luck, my friend," he told Anders, more sincerely this time, letting out his breath in a low, solemn huff. "I feel you are very much going to need it."


	3. Seleny

Anders, Alastair and Madeline travelled only by night through the Drylands, but even the coolness of the night could not stop the worn patchwork boots he had purchased in Brynnlaw from being the only things keeping their feet from burning on the dry, rough sand. Anders had made sure to purchase plenty of water with the money Zevran had given them, but the desert seemed to go on forever, making him wonder if they were going to have enough to make it even to the next city. He had tried to explain the concept of water rationing to his children, but while Alastair seemed to accept the idea, Madeline was still too young to grasp it, and so, against his better judgement, Anders had allowed both children open access to the water canteen along the journey. He knew he would have to take whatever they drank out of his own rations, but he figured as long as he could still walk, their need for water outweighed his own, and if worst came to worst, he would simply find another way to get the water he needed.

Despite this, Anders had quickly found other ways to keep himself and his children cool, if only for short periods at a time. With no one around to see and expose them, he had taken to using the energy usually spent cloaking his staff to conjure a gentle, snowy breeze to hover around the little family, relieving the heat for short periods at a time. The summoned cold would barely have a chance to cool them down, however, before it quickly melted away again, negated by the heat of the desert, even at night. He could not sustain his magic to combat the heat of the day, however, and so their daytimes were spent sleeping instead, resting together under the shade of a miniscule, makeshift tent cobbled together from the blanket Hawke had made, strung up between Anders' staff planted in the dusty ground and one of the tiny, gnarled trees that grew every so often across the dry, cracked earth. Then, once the sun had begun to sink in the sky, they would hastily pack up their bag again and start out once more on their journey, heading south towards the city of Seleny.

The days were long in the Drylands, and the nights were painfully short, and by the time the city of Seleny came into view just over the crest of the horizon, barely any of their water rations remained. Despite the weakness in his knees, his dry, scratchy throat, and his cracked, painful lips, Anders had made sure to save the last few sips of water for Madeline, and so he was only too glad to see the welcoming city of Seleny spread out before them, the marketplace open for business and buzzing with commerce and life. Several friendly-looking merchants beckoned for the little family to come and buy their wares, and, in spite of his thirst and exhaustion, Alastair eagerly ran off to explore the market, but Anders wasted no time in heading straight to the first stand that looked as though it might sell something he could drink. The stand was covered from top to bottom in all manner of meats, cheeses, and other farm produce, though the freshly-skinned deer haunches, rabbits, and scaled fish strung up from along the front of the table frame made it obvious the merchant was a hunter by trade as well.

The merchant himself stood behind the stall, one large, solid hand rubbing salt into a slab of bright pink meat while the other, wrapped in a bandage covered in what looked to be congealed blood, rested tiredly on his hip. He was a big man, tall and muscular, with a full, thick beard adorning a round, jolly face. He looked to be no more than forty, though the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were pinched beyond his years with a combination of laugher and sun. He hummed a deep little tune as he worked, seeming almost oblivious to what was going on around him, not even seeming to notice Anders and Madeline approaching until Anders cleared his throat, gently, getting the man's attention. "Do you have any water?" he asked, speaking softly as he adjusted Madeline more securely against his waist. "My daughter and I just got into town, and… we're very thirsty."

At this, the merchant looked up, surprised, before suddenly frowning, taken aback by the request. "Water?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, though his accent was similar to that of the assassin. "My friend, we are right here in Seleny, easy travel from the river. If you want water, why not get it from there?" Shrugging then, he turned his attention back down towards his wares, picking up another pinch of salt with his one good hand and starting to rub it into the meat in front of him again. "If you want something else… I suggest the tavern," he added, matter-of-factly. "I am not a brewery, my friend. Or a water spout. I only sell meat and cheese."

"Sir, we've been travelling for days," Anders told him, a bit more intent now, wetting his lips as he leaned tiredly against the edge of the mercantile stand. "I don't drink, and the river is much too far for my daughter. Don't you have _any_ water you could spare? Even for coin?"

"Whoa there now," the merchant conceded, looking up again. "All right, my friend, all right." Reaching underneath his stand, he retrieved an empty metal cup, handing it to Anders and pointing in the direction of a cluster of panel-roofed houses, all pushed together to form what looked like one gigantic housing unit. The largest and darkest-roofed of the houses jutted up from the middle, overshadowing the other two, with bright, cheerful, yellow light coming out of all of its windows. "There is a well with water near the tavern over there," the merchant told him, helpfully. "Just pull the bucket up and you can drink from there. Fill up your canteen as well while you're at it." Leaning with his good hand against his stand, he clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he propped his bandaged hand disappointedly against his hip again. "You don't have to pay for water here," he told him, seeming almost surprised to have to say it. "Anywhere that makes a man with a small child pay for water is ruthless."

"I appreciate your kindness, friend," Anders returned, turning to look at the merchant again and spinning the cup idly between his thin fingers. "You'd be surprised how few places feel the same way. Nearly all of the coin we had for our journey we spent on water for crossing the Drylands—"

"The Drylands?" the merchant asked, sounding thoroughly surprised. "You and that tiny little thing, there – you two crossed the Drylands?"

"Us two, and my son as well," Anders answered, indicating loosely with the hand holding the cup towards where Alastair stood, eagerly inspecting a stack of cages with chickens inside. "The three of us crossed the Drylands from Brynnlaw. We were told it would be the shortest route to the river." Letting his hand fall back to his side, he gave a short, tired shrug of one shoulder, almost dismissive. "It wasn't easy," he added, honestly. "But… you can't really afford to dally around when you've got as little as we do. I'm just glad we made it here. One more day in that blasted heat and we would have been goners for sure."

"For sure," the merchant agreed, impressed. "Tell me, though, my friend, now – how much coin do you have still to spend?"

"Only enough for a room and a ship," Anders admitted, giving another soft, thin sigh. "Anything more than that would cut our assets far too much." Pausing then, he hesitated, frowning a bit as the oddness of the question suddenly hit him. Though the merchant had been nothing but genial up to that point, he still could not shake the suspicion that questions like this were out of the ordinary, and if this merchant had a mind to rob him, it would not matter how little gold he had on him, as long as there was something to steal. "I was just about to head to get the room," he added, quickly, hoping the thought of a crowded tavern might deter the merchant from trying anything suspicious. "We don't want to be out too long after dark. We need to get rested for the journey ahead, and hopefully getting some sleep will help keep their minds off not being able to eat tonight."

"What, no food?" the merchant asked, seeming actually startled by this. "That little one, the baby… she can't go hungry. Not at her age. It's just not right, you know?"

"I know," Anders conceded, guiltily. "We had some bread when we started out, but it went bad before we even reached Brynnlaw. We picked up some more bread in Brynnlaw, and some fruit—"

"Bread will never last you," the merchant said, waving a disapproving hand. "Everything causes bread to go bad. Hot, cold, dry, wet… gone. What you need is salted meat and jerky. Dried fruit. Crackers. Things that don't depend on staying light and fluffy. Hardy foods."

"I appreciate the advice," Anders answered, earnestly. "If I had any coin, I would follow it. Unfortunately, we only have enough—"

"For a room and a ship, yes," the merchant agreed, cutting him off. "Right. But listen." Looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on them, the merchant leaned in towards Anders, indicating with his good hand for the mage to come in closer. "Do you have any skills, my good man?" the merchant asked, raising his brows, expectantly. "I can't stand to see a child go hungry, but I also can't go giving my wares away for free. Soon every beggar in Seleny will be coming to ask for scraps. If you can offer a service I can use, however, say… skinning, or boning, perhaps…?"

Anders frowned a bit at the suggestions, shaking his head disappointedly. "I'm afraid I never learned the hunting trade," he admitted. "I've been more of a scholar most of my life. The only spine I've ever broken was on a book." Pausing, he bit his lip, thoughtful, considering whether this merchant could be trusted enough to be told more of the truth, and whether his need for supplies was so great that he should risk his safety or the safety of his children to attain it. Thus far, the merchant had shown him nothing but sincerity and kindness, and so, adjusting Madeline against his hip, Anders glanced down, noticing the bloodied bandage wrapped around the merchant's hand. "How did you hurt yourself, friend?" he asked, pointing to the injury, curiously.

"What, this?" the merchant returned, holding up his injured hand and looking at it, interestedly. "I cut myself something fierce on a tanning knife, trying to prepare some leather for a nice pair of gloves for a client. Never did get around to finishing the gloves, and now, thanks to my hand being the way it is, I cannot even sew, let alone finish tanning the leather needed for the gloves." Letting out a heavy sigh, he shrugged his broad shoulders, staring at his hand and shaking his head. "My client is going to be furious when he does not get his gloves, but what can I do?" he added, sadly. "I've tried herbs and homeopathic cures, and a bit of medicine from the medicine merchant over there…" Here, he tilted his bearded head in the direction of another stand across the way, this one manned by a bald, broad-shouldered businessman who seemed to be preaching the validity of his wares, different suspicious-looking coloured liquids in bottles of various sizes and shapes. "That just seemed to make it worse," the merchant added, causing Anders to turn his attention towards him again. "He told me it was _supposed_ to do that. It has to get worse before it can get better, he said. But…"

Reaching forward then, he took hold of the edge of the bloody bandage, and, with a pained sucking in of breath, he began to unwrap it from around his hand. Once the bandage was fully unravelled, he dropped it down onto the table between them to reveal a swollen, throbbing hand so dark red with infection it was almost black. Anders frowned, resisting the urge to physically flinch at the sight of the man's hand, but Madeline was not so courteous, instead letting out a repelled whine and burying her face in her father's jacket. Setting the cup he had been given down on the edge of the mercantile stand, Anders reached forward, taking the man's hand in his own, and turned it over in his grasp, inspecting it. "I can fix your hand," he told the merchant, quietly, speaking just loud enough for the man to hear as he turned his attention up towards him again, regarding him with a solemn expression. "If you're amenable, I'd be willing to do it in exchange for supplies that my children and I can use on our journey."

"Well, I've got plenty of supplies," the merchant told him, indicating quickly over the length of his stand with his free good hand. "If you can really fix my hand for me, I'd be willing to let you have whatever you need… within reason. A man who does another man an act of kindness should be rewarded for his troubles."

Glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure he was not being watched, Anders turned his attention back towards the merchant, pressing his thumb into the man's swollen palm and watching as both of their hands began to glow a soft, brilliant blue. Within seconds, the glowing had subsided, and Anders retrieved his hand again, wiping it off on his coat as the man inspected his own hand, amazed. The redness and swelling had disappeared, along with the nasty cut, leaving only a tiny, thin scar as an indicator that he had cut himself at all.

"That is incredible, my friend," the merchant said, turning his hand over in astonishment. "But, how can you be a mage? I do not see your staff."

"It… it's just a small trick," Anders told him, quickly, shaking his head as his hand itched at his side, resisting the urge to take protective hold of his staff. "Just a bit of magic I picked up along the way. No need to tell anyone about it… except perhaps those you think will truly benefit from it. Like I said, it's… it's really nothing."

"Nothing?" the merchant asked, astounded, turning his hand over again in bewilderment. "I was going to lose my hand, and now look at it! What you've done is nothing short of a miracle, my friend. Please, take whatever you need." Running an astounded finger across the minute scar, he gave a soft, disbelieving laugh, before looking up at Anders again, stopping him mid-reach as he moved to pick up a piece of salted jerky sitting in a basket at the edge of the stand. "You said you will be staying in town for the night, yes?" the merchant asked, causing Anders to look up, surprised. "I must tell my wife about you. She will want to know. Perhaps I could even set you up with a business of your own? You'll be sure to get plenty of customers. There are always people needing medical help around here, and until you came along, all we had was…"

Here, he nodded his head again towards the medicine merchant, who seemed completely oblivious to the exchange going on about him across the marketplace. Anders turned, glancing back at the medicine merchant again, before returning his attention to the meat merchant and shaking his head, anxious. "No, sir, please," he implored. "Please, don't go spreading this around. I'm not here to set up shop, I just need supplies for my journey. I don't want to get us in trouble—"

"Who said anything about trouble?" the merchant cut him off, enthusiastically. "Listen, here's what I'll do. If you buy a room for the night in the tavern, I'll tell everyone I know who needs healing help to meet you there with money and supplies for you and your little ones." Holding up his hands, he clasped them, pleadingly. "One night, that's all I'm asking," he told him. "You get some travelling money and all the supplies you need, and my friends get the medical help they need. _Real_ medical help. Not…" He trailed off again, and this time, he did not even need to indicate who he was talking about for Anders to automatically know.

Anders sighed at the proposition, resting his free hand on his thin hip as he looked down at the ground, indecisive. What the man was suggesting was simple enough – it gave him a chance to practice the skills he loved, while the one-night window made it a short enough timeframe that the chances of Templar involvement were tolerably slim – but the idea of practicing magic in the open, with no route of escape should things turn sour, still made him understandably nervous. Adjusting Madeline more comfortably against his waist again, he turned his gaze back up towards the merchant, who was still staring at him expectantly, his meaty hands clasped in front of him. "One night," Anders agreed, holding up a finger to indicate. " _Just one_. And please, sir, only tell the people you think will actually benefit. Bringing a small group of people into my room will be suspicious enough as it is, but a large parade of people coming in and out of my room will look… problematic, at best."

"Parade!" Madeline exclaimed, looking up at her father for the first time, beaming excitedly at the word. Then, laying her head on his shoulder again, she put her thumb in her mouth, starting to suck on it tiredly. "Thirsty," she told him, wearily.

"Right, yes," Anders agreed, flustered, picking up the small, beaten-up cup from where he had set it back down on the merchant's table. "Water. I have to go get—but…" He stopped, pointing again towards the merchant and sucking in a deep, anxious breath. "Tonight," he told him. "My room in the tavern. And only a few people, _please_. I honestly can't have this getting out to those who I'd… rather not have knowing about us being here."

"My friend, you can trust me!" the merchant assured him, holding up his now matching fully-healed hands. "I have never been known to do a fellow wrong. I assure you, I will only bring those who truly need your help. A couple friends at most. I _swear_."

* * *

It seemed that whatever the merchant had told his wife, she had then gone on to tell everyone she could possibly think of, as every time Anders looked up from his work, the line at the door of his room only seemed to grow longer. Wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve, he gave an exhausted huff of breath as he ushered the most recently healed patient out the door to make way for the next patient to come inside and receive treatment. People shuffled and murmured impatiently as they waited to be seen by the healer, carrying small offerings of coin or supplies to set aside on the bed when they reached the front of the queue before sitting down across from Anders to tell him their various ailments. Everything from infected cuts to fungal growths, toothaches, headaches, children with colic who would not stop crying, broken bones that had healed incorrectly, all flooded into his tiny tavern room for magical aid, leaving him with barely enough time to breathe between patients before someone new came in with something else for him to attend to.

Madeline had long since fallen asleep on the tiny tavern bed, sucking peacefully on her thumb as she slept, but Alistair sat patiently awake as his father worked. He had taken on the job of going through the various forms of payment, counting the coin and sorting the food into different types, seeming completely disinterested in the work his father was doing. He had seen Anders perform magic before, and it amused Anders to think that the boy must be so confused as to why these people were making such a fuss over his use of magic when in their house it had always been so commonplace. Finishing his work on an old woman's aching jaw, he ushered the next patient into the room, sitting the mother and crying child down in front of him and starting to check the child for obvious signs of discomfort. "Maker bless you, sir," the woman sighed as Anders looked inside the child's mouth, checking for a loose or bleeding tooth. Finding none, he let the child's mouth close again, moving on to the ears and frowning when he realized what the issue was.

"He has an ear infection," he informed her, frankly. "It won't be a problem to take care of. Hold him still for just a moment and I'll make it good as new."

"You've had practice at this," the woman observed as Anders gently pinched the edge of the boy's ear, causing both his hand and the ear to glow blue for a moment.

The blue glow died down quickly, and Anders retrieved his hand again, leaving the child's ear no longer swollen. The boy's sobs subsided into sniffles as he reached up a hand, feeling his mended ear, before smiling up at his mother, approvingly. "You get used to the regular things that hurt when you have more than one," Anders agreed, giving a soft sigh of a laugh as he looked up at the woman again. The woman nodded in agreement, thankful, before getting up from her chair and moving out the door to make way for the next needy patron. Just then, a ruckus erupted from the back of the line, causing both Anders and Alastair to look up, startled, watching in alarm as the meat merchant from earlier that day pushed his way to the front of the queue and burst through the door of the room, wide-eyed and out of breath.

"They're coming," he panted, pointing back towards the tavern he had just come from. "Sir, you must go – take your children and go!"

"Who's coming?" Anders returned, startled, holding out a hand to gesture for Alastair to return to his side. "Maker please, anyone but the Templars—"

"It's the Templars," the merchant answered, swallowing, trying desperately to catch his portly breath. "Rogue Templars. Someone tipped them off—I'd bet money it was that damned medicine merchant! There's no time to waste, friend, you must leave! You must go!" The announcement that Templars were coming for the healer seemed to strike a chord in the gathered party, for as soon as the words were out of the merchant's mouth, the line erupted into chaos. Moving quickly to the bed, Anders swept everything they had been given haphazardly into the little leather rucksack, knotting the strings inelegantly and slinging it over one shoulder before grabbing both of his children off the bed and looking for the nearest window. The sound of men's voices shouting could be heard over the panic of the crowd, insisting the villagers move out of the way so they could get to the mage, and he quickly lifted Alastair up through the window, watching him climb out onto the roof before passing Madeline through as well. Once his children were safely outside the room, Anders pushed the window as far open as he could, pulling himself through the opening as well just as the Templars made their way to the front of the line, piling into the now-empty room and looking around for the rebel mage.

It did not take them long to figure out what had happened, however. Anders could hear them shouting angrily out the open window as he made his way down the slope of the roof, but their curses were unintelligible in the humid night air as he dropped off the edge of the roofing, hissing in pain as his ankle twisted under him before righting himself and turning for his children to follow suit. "Drop Madeline," he hissed, holding his arms up towards where Alastair still perched on the edge of the roof, holding his baby sister, who had started to cry in confusion. "Or don't—don't _drop_ her, but… I'll catch her. Just lower her down to me as far as you can. Then you have to jump."

"I'm scared," Alastair whined, holding Madeline closer to himself as his knees began to quiver under him.

"I'm scared, too," Anders admitted. "But you have to hurry, or we'll be in even bigger trouble than we are now. You have to trust me, Alastair. I would never let anyone hurt you."

Seeming to take courage in his father's reassuring words, Alastair crouched at the edge of the roof, lowering his baby sister down under the arms until her feet brushed Anders' fingertips. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he let her slide the rest of the way out of his grasp, falling for a brief moment before being caught securely by her father and lowered safely to the ground. Reaching up again, Anders beckoned for his son to follow suit. Alastair hesitated, frightened, but then, suddenly, the sound of loud banging came from behind him, and he looked to see that one of the Templars had climbed out the window as well and was headed towards him across the roof. Letting out a strangled shout, Alastair slid quickly off the roof, landing heavily in his father's arms before being lowered safely to the ground as well. "Pick up your sister," Anders instructed, breathlessly. "Give her to me. Take my hand. Let's go – _let's go_."

Grabbing Alastair's hand, Anders pressed Madeline close to his chest, throwing one last look over his shoulder as he made his way towards the darkened edge of town, hearing the furious shouts of the Templars and the ruckus of the tavern behind them as they went. He could hear the sound of heavy, armoured feet chasing them as they ducked into an alleyway, climbing over a low fence and passing into a thinly wooded area just outside the town gates. The way to the river was in the other direction, or so the merchant had told him, but there was nothing but open road that way and the sound of shouting and heavy footfalls still following behind him let him know that the Templars were only too eager to catch their quarry to simply let him go at the edge of the city. The thicket of trees grew denser and darker the further he ran into the heart of the forest, and the deeper they went, the more a foul, lingering smell began to grow around them, foreboding and wild. The ground grew damp and rancid under their feet, the smell of wet, rotting flora causing Alastair to gag and Madeline to hide her face in her father's jacket in an attempt to block it out.

Finally, out of breath, unable to run any longer on his injured ankle, Anders ducked behind a large, wet tree, pulling his children in towards him and holding his breath as the sound of the Templars approaching grew louder, before finally stopping barely feet from where they hid. Anders did not dare to move or even breathe as he listened to the sounds of the Templars mulling frustratedly about, wondering where the mage and his children had disappeared to. Madeline lifted her head, her face pink and streaked with confused tears, and gave a soft, low keen, but Anders shook his head, gently touching a finger to her lips and instantly quieting the little girl.

"I think he went into the Swamps," the first Templar commented, pointing his blade in the direction of the thick swath of trees. Anders locked his jaw, anxious, his hand pressing flat against the slimy bark, barely daring to take a breath as long as the Templars still stood so close at hand. Alastair pressed his face into his father's stomach, barely making a sound even as he breathed, and Anders quickly wrapped the edges of his long coat around him, enveloping the boy in its folds. Pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to Madeline's forehead, he petted her soft hair, coaxing her head in towards his neck in an effort to keep her quiet and soothed, but he could not keep her from letting out another soft, high-pitched keening noise. The Templars did not even seem to notice the noise, however, over the much louder sound of swamp wildlife, the buzzing of mosquitos, croaking of frogs, and chirping of grasshoppers.

"If he went into the Swamps, he's dead," the second Templar put in, making a harsh, downward gesture with the hand not holding his sword. "Nobody comes out of those Swamps. Not with Yavana living there." Anders swallowed hard as he heard the sound of the man sheathing his weapon, quietly shushing his children again as Alastair gave a soft whimper of fear. "They say she eats the hearts of trespassers while they're still alive, then feeds whatever's left to the animals," the Templar went on, seeming to almost revel the thought of their quarry's gruesome demise. "They never find the remains of anyone who gets lost in those Swamps."

"I heard there are beast men living in the Swamps," the first Templar put in. "And that the waters are full of the spirits of drowned girls. That their unborn children haunt the Swamp, searching for revenge on anyone who passes through."

"I've heard there's an elder dragon living in the Swamps," a third Templar added, sounding even more excited at the prospect of such a fearsome mythical beast.

"With a Witch of the Wilds living there?" the second Templar asked, matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't be surprised. In fact, I'd be more surprised if there _wasn't_ an elder dragon living in there."

"What's a Witch of the Wilds?" Alastair whispered, looking up at Anders, but Anders quickly hushed him again, putting a protective hand on his head and drawing him in again as he peered out at the Templars from behind the tree, trying to determine if they were still there. Just then, a low, mournful, echoing howl wafted through the forest, causing all three of them to look up, startled. Madeline gave a sharp cry of fear, but Anders was quick to shush her again, putting his gentle finger on her mouth to quiet her while the Templars still stood so close nearby. Alastair looked up at his father with wide, confused eyes, but Anders could only shake his head in return, admitting to his son that he had no idea where the noise was coming from, or what it could possibly be.

"The dragon," one of the Templars gasped, taking a noisy step backwards. "They say that's the sound it makes when it comes to feed at the Secret Grove. Yavana must have caught the apostate already."

"Good riddance to him and his filthy brood," the second Templar sneered, before snorting loudly and spitting on the ground, cursing the runaway mage and his family. The sound of sliding metal let Anders know that the other Templars had sheathed their weapons as well, and the sound of their footfalls could be heard retreating over the wet, soggy ground, getting fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them at all. He did not move from his hiding place, even still, until a minute or so after the last of the faintest footsteps had disappeared, not wanting to take the chance of coming out of hiding too soon and being apprehended on the spot. The woods were empty when he stepped away from the tree, the only sounds of movement that of the wildlife and the incessant buzzing of the insects. The splash of a large, dark toad hopping from the shore into the rancid, murky water made him jump, still on edge, but he quickly gathered his children close once more, indicating further into the swamp with a jerk of his stubbled chin.

"The only way out is forward," he told them, taking a readying breath of fetid, swampy air. "So, I suppose… let's go forward."


	4. The Green Dales

The path through the Swamps was so murky and dark that Anders could barely see where he was going, even with the help of magelight. The moon could scarcely be seen filtering between the thick, leafy branches of the trees, and every step squelched unpleasantly under the little family's feet as they tried to pick their way around the deepest mud and pools, to little success. Holding both children as high as his tired arms could manage, Anders held his breath to keep from gagging as he slogged his way across a tarn of waist-deep swamp water, trying not to think about what manner of creatures might be living just below the water's surface. Reaching the other side, he deposited both children on the slippery bank, making sure Alastair had secure footing and a good grip on Madeline before pulling himself up out of the water as well, allowing himself a moment to breathe as he sat on the slimy bank. A mosquito buzzed past his ear, causing him to swat aimlessly in the dark for it, and he let out an exasperated sigh, pulling off his boots and hiking up his soaking pants to check his legs for leeches.

"I can't keep doing this," he muttered, out of breath, reaching over to pick up one of his shoes. Turning it over, he watched as thick, dirty water and slick, clumpy mud poured from the boot back into the swamp, sliding and clinging stubbornly around the edges of the cuff before finally dropping off with the sound of toads hitting sewer water. "We should have just stayed in Antiva. I never thought I would miss living in the woods."

"Father, I'm tired," Alastair moaned, reaching over to tug on his father's jacket sleeve. Anders shook his head in response, gently brushing his son's hand away from his arm as he emptied the mud from his other boot. Then, pulling it back on his foot again, he gave a soft, unimpressed grunt as the wet filth he had not managed to get rid of seeped around his foot, chilling it in unpleasant sogginess.

"We're all tired, Alastair," Anders told the boy, wetting his mud-crusted lips as he tried to catch his breath again, to little avail. "But… we just have to keep going. Who knows what manner of creature lives in these Swamps—"

Just then, another howl pierced through the thick of the foliage around them, causing Anders to jump as a small group of birds took flight from a nearby tree, startled by the otherworldly noise. Madeline gave a soft whine of fear, and he quickly picked her up again from where she had been sitting in Alastair's lap, shushing her gently and bouncing her reassuringly on his knee. Tucking his knees up to his chest, Alastair wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, looking warily around the dreary forest for any other signs of movement. "The dragon is getting closer," he commented, his voice low.

Stopping in bouncing Madeline against his knee, Anders gave a soft, frustrated sigh, pushing a hand back through his dirty, overgrown hair. "Alastair, please," he said, irritated. "There are no dragons in the Swamp. Those Templars were just trying to scare us into coming out so they could catch us." Then, faltering, he frowned, realizing how harsh his tone had become, before reaching out a hand to pull Alastair in closer and nestling the boy's head against his free shoulder. "Besides," he added, trying hard to keep his voice as upbeat as possible. "If there really was a dragon, it would have found us by now, don't you think? High Dragons have an excellent sense of smell."

"We smell terrible, though," Alastair returned, scrunching up his nose and making a face. "Wouldn't it have a harder time finding us if we don't smell different from the rest of the swamp?"

"I…" Anders paused again, considering this, before his free hand came to rest on top of Alastair's head, thoughtful. "I don't know," he said, honestly. "But wouldn't you think a dragon would make much more noise if it were moving through the trees?"

"Not if it knew its way around," Alastair answered, truthfully.

Anders sighed again, tapping his son patiently on the head. "Right," he said. "Time to get moving. We don't want to be stuck in here all night." Then, with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself to his feet with the hand not still holding Madeline, picking up his staff from where it had been set unconcernedly aside in the wet grass. "You can use that," he told Alastair, holding the stave out towards him. "Help you walk a little better, maybe. Make your feet less tired."

"Shouldn't you hold onto it, in case we come across a dragon?" Alastair asked, taking the staff from his father's hand and leaning on it, earnestly. Anders sighed once more, long-suffering, before reaching out to ruffle Alastair's dark-orange hair.

"Let's just go," he said, trying his hardest to remain patient for his son's sake.

* * *

Whatever hope Anders had had of getting out of the forest before the end of nightfall did not take long to dash, as no matter how deep into the swamp they ventured, the thicket of trees only seemed to stretch on even further ahead of them, neverending. Unseen creatures hooted and chittered at them from the darkened branches, and every so often a wild shriek from the woods would cause them to jump and look around, wary, but apart from the eerie noises, the journey through the Swamps seemed to be progressing with surprising little upset. At one point Alastair had grabbed hold of his father's arm, tugging on his sleeve, claiming to have seen a spirit, but when Anders had looked and seen nothing, he had simply hurried his son along, convinced it had been a trick of the moonlight. The haunting howling, keening noise they had heard when they had first entered the Swamps had echoed through the trees once or twice more during their travels, but after a while, it, too had gone unexplainably silent.

The swamp grew even harder to navigate after the sun began to set on what Anders guessed was the second day, the only light to guide their way a few scattered slivers of moonlight flickering in between the leaves. More than once Anders had stumbled over an exposed tree root, nearly dropping his precious cargo, but he had quickly regained his footing again, hardly paying any mind to his bruised and skinned knees as he tried to pick his way stoically forward. He figured that if he were to travel in one direction long enough, he would likely reach an end to the forest eventually, but the blackened, repetitive mire of the swamp was making it admittedly difficult to discern which way was forward, and which way had already been covered. It was with some relief, then, when the thicket of trees began to slowly filter out, allowing them to pick their way along a ghostly moonlit path, their footfalls rustling and squelching along the sodden, leafy ground, not caring how much noise they made, convinced they were nearing the end of their path.

"Father," Alastair suddenly whispered, reaching up to take hold of Anders' arm. Anders looked down at his son, frowning a bit, hoping he was not going to ask to take a breather now that they were so close to leaving the forest. Instead, he was surprised to find the boy staring at something to one side of them, hidden among a ringed thicket of moon-bathed trees. When Anders looked closer, he was surprised to see what looked to be a large, ancient-looking building sitting in the middle of the grove, the structure carved from what appeared to be enormous chunks of marble, its massive roof supported by a series of artistically engraved pillars. His frown deepening, Anders gave an interested grunt before turning his attention back to his boy and putting a leading hand on his shoulder, moving him along.

"Probably a sacred ruin," he told the boy, frankly. "We shouldn't disturb it. Let's keep moving."

"But Father," Alastair argued, taking a step back and tugging on Anders' jacket sleeve again, this time pointing to something else in the grove. " _Look_."

Huffing a patient, long-suffering sigh, Anders turned his attention upwards to see what the boy was pointing at, and, as soon as he did so, he felt his stomach drop down to his knees, his blood turning quickly to ice. Grabbing his son by the arm, he took a terrified step backward into the shadows of the forest, clutching his daughter close to his chest, preparing to protect them if the need came to it. Perched on top of the high, pillared building in the middle of the eerie glade was an enormous, glistening High Dragon, its long, snake-like neck drifting almost dreamily from side to side as it stared down into the clearing, its fiery eyes wide, expectant, almost as if waiting for something – or someone – to appear. Despite the low, rippling growl that rolled from its leathery throat, the dragon seemed almost aimless, flexing its claws against the stone roofing of the building as it settled itself more comfortably into the same place it had been since they arrived, and likely before that. It appeared to be almost rooted in place, as if something were preventing it from moving, something that it kept waiting for, patiently, unassumingly, the way only a loyal animal could wait.

Sliding his arm out of his father's grasp, Alastair took a cautious step forward towards the dragon, causing the creature's enormous head to snap in his direction, its fiery eyes widening, nostrils flaring as it watched him approach with keen interest. Alastair reached out a wary hand, eager to try and touch the animal, but Anders quickly grabbed hold of his free arm again, pulling him back in towards the relative safety of the forest. The dragon gave a loud snort at this reaction, followed by a keening screech, before lowering its head again and continuing to wait, its thick, scaly tail flicking impatiently as it stared intently into the empty, open clearing, biding its time. Turning to look up at his father, Alastair's brow furrowed into a curious frown. "Why didn't the dragon attack me?" he asked, pointing towards the dragon again, only to have his father quickly push his hand back to his side once more. "Is it a tame dragon? What is it doing?"

"There's no such thing as a tame dragon," Anders told him, his voice a low hiss as he looked back up towards the creature again, wary. The dragon's eyes kept flicking back towards the little family, observing them curiously, before quickly returning to watching the clearing, waiting patiently. "I don't know what it's doing," Anders admitted. "Watching for something, maybe. Prey, perhaps, or something… else."

"Like what?" Alastair asked, his frown deepening, curious.

Anders faltered, trying to think of an answer for this, before finally shaking his head and letting out a low, exasperated sigh. "I don't know," he answered, frankly. "And I don't want to wait around until whatever it is comes along. If it's intimidating enough to scare a dragon into submission, it's not something we want to be caught up in."

"What could be scarier than a dragon?" Alastair asked, earnestly, taking a few running skips to catch up to his father and taking his hand in his smaller, dirtier one. Glancing behind him as they walked, he watched as the dragon's enormous form began to slowly disappear into the thick foliage of the trees, the only thing still visible through the undergrowth its intense, gleaming, unblinking eyes following them as they moved further and further away from the clearing. "What's scarier than a dragon, Father?" Alastair repeated, louder this time, but received no answer from his father as the dragon was finally swallowed by the denseness of the forest behind them.

* * *

The sun was already beginning to come up again by the time the treeline finally began to thin, and Anders could barely keep his head up as he trekked his determined way towards the far edge of the Swamps. He had promised himself the night before that he would not rest until he had gotten his children safely out of the dangerous mire, but the journey had taken much longer than expected, with every tree they passed looking exactly the same, every pool of water they waded through twice as deep as it appeared. Alastair had long since lost one of his shoes in the deep, sticky mud of the swampy banks, and Anders had taken to carrying him the rest of the way through the forest, not wanting him to pick up worms by walking barefoot through the mud and filth. His legs were weak with pain beneath him as he limped his way past the last line of trees, before he finally collapsed to his knees in the fresh green grass of the open meadow beyond. The ground felt soft beneath his body, and as he lowered Alastair back to his feet, he could feel his arm stiffen with pain at having carried the boy for so long. Now that they were finally out of the treacherous swamps, Anders had half a mind to simply go to sleep right there in the meadow where they sat, but he knew that even a pleasant meadow had the potential to be dangerous in these uncertain times. And so, struggling back to his feet again, he pushed the little family onward, heading across the open field towards the line of hills on the horizon.

Anders had only ever heard of the Weyrs in stories, with people in taverns spinning tales of monstrous creatures living in the rocks and crevices that would leap out to devour unsuspecting travellers. Now that he was actually there, he could see where the stories had come from. The meadow they passed through was deceptively inviting, and it quickly gave way to rocky terrain, the ever-thinning grass and flowers interspersed with yellowed, sulphuric-smelling glade pools and dark caverns that dripped and growled as they passed. Anders kept his children close by, his mind always on the staff on his back, wondering how quickly he could draw it should something see fit to attack them. More than once they came across an enormous, lazy tail hanging down from one of the taller rock structures, flicking sleepily in the sun as whatever it was attached to sunned itself barely feet from where they were passing by. Madeline coughed, covering her mouth and nose to block out the smell of sulphur and reptile waste, and even Alastair wrinkled up his nose, barely able to take the stench, gripping tightly to his father's hand as they passed by what looked to be a large pile of still-bloody bones.

"Are these dragons, Father?" Alastair asked, barely speaking above a whisper.

Anders frowned, glancing over his shoulder, making sure nothing was following them without their knowledge. "Wyverns," he corrected, speaking even lower, so as not to draw attention to their party. "They're wyverns, Alastair. Smaller than dragons, but just as mean. And poisonous. Deadly poisonous." Just then, the sound of a low, rumbling gurgle reached their ears, and Anders stopped short, jerking Alastair's hand, pulling the boy behind him protectively. Barely yards from where they stood, an enormous purple wyvern sat sunning itself on a large, flat rock, its huge, glassy eyes closed peacefully against the warm sunlight as it tilted its head towards the sky, frozen in place. Every so often its forked tongue would slither in and out of its mouth, making it clear that, while it was distracted by the heat of the sun, it was still very much awake and alert. Barely daring to even lift his feet, Anders began to move slowly around the edge of the rock structure, keeping his focus locked on the wyvern and making sure to keep Alastair safely behind him as he moved. The wyvern gurgled again, the sound a deep, frightening purr, its throat vibrating with the noise as it pulled itself a bit straighter towards the sun, making it clear that it was much larger than they had originally thought it to be.

"Eww!" Madeline suddenly shouted, causing Anders to nearly jump out of his skin as she pointed disgustedly towards the wyvern's pulsating throat. "Lizard, Daddy! _Eww!_ "

At the sound of her voice, the wyvern pulled instantly out of its sunning trance, its giant head snapping in their direction as its enormous eyes flickered open, staring at them in startling bright, fiery orange. Anders' grip tightened on Alastair's hand, panic flooding over him for a split second as he tried to decide what to do, having three things to cover but only two hands to do them with. Dropping Madeline unceremoniously into Alastair's arms, he stepped in front of his two children, drawing his staff from his back and holding it at the ready, the three polished serpent heads smoking with ice magic as the wyvern puffed itself up to its full height, facing off against them, baring its needle-sharp teeth. Yellowish saliva dripped from its jowls, sizzling angrily as it hit the hot rock it stood on, and Anders took a wary step back, charging up a lightning spell in his free hand as he faced off with the beast, the only thing standing between it and his children. "Alastair, run!" he instructed, sharply, glancing once over his shoulder towards his son before returning his attention to the wyvern in front of him.

The wyvern shrieked, leaping forward towards him, barely missing him as he ducked to one side. Its massive claws shattered the rock he had been standing on barely moments earlier, and it quickly turned, its enormous tail sweeping the rubble aside like nothing as it faced off against him again, letting out another gurgling howl, its throat vibrating angrily with the noise. Sweeping his staff forward, Anders fired a blast of ice magic into the wyvern's gaping face, causing it to give a shriek as it slammed its head into the rocks, trying to break the ice. Taking the opportunity of its momentary distraction, he pushed forward with his other hand, shocking the beast, causing it to crackle with electricity as it spun in a dizzying circle. Its huge tail swept out towards him as it spun, nearly knocking him from his feet, but the wyvern quickly returned its attention to him again, barely seeming fazed at all by the show of magic. Glancing once over his shoulder to make sure his children no longer in danger, Anders stepped back away from the beast, baring his staff and holding up his other hand in a vain attempt to calm the creature. The wyvern, however, seemed in no mood to be calmed, and bellowed at him angrily, spraying him with yellow spit, causing his jacket to sizzle where the saliva settled on the material.

Just then, the sound of shouting reached Anders' ears, and he spun, looking back towards where the noise was coming from. Realizing he was distracted, the wyvern howled, hunkering back on its muscular hind legs before pouncing eagerly forward towards him, claws extended. It did not even have a chance to reach him, however, before an arrow suddenly pierced straight through its throat, the tip sticking gruesomely out of the back of its neck as the shaft sat lodged in its gullet. The wooden arrow sizzled with black-red blood as the wyvern shrieked in pain, every noise and thrash causing bursts of blood to gush out of its open wound, covering the rocks in slick, dark gore. Anders took a step back, gripping his staff, his eyes wide, watching as the wyvern writhed on the ground in agony, lashing around on the rocky terrain like an angry fish out of water. Before he could react, however, another arrow soared towards the wyvern, piercing it through the side of its ribs, causing it to give one last, pained howl and one last, fatal thrash, before finally going completely still, its enormous claws still outstretched, its gruesome mouth gaping open, its eyes blank and lifeless as they stared up unseeingly towards the sun.

For a long moment, Anders could do nothing but stare in disbelief at the defeated creature laying before him, but he was quickly brought back down to earth by the sound of voices behind him again. Turning around towards the source of the noise, he held on tightly to his staff, prepared, wanting to trust whoever had come to his aid but not knowing if he could. It did not take long for the source of the voices to appear over the crest of the rocky terrain, and Anders took a wary step back, his brow furrowing concernedly as the form of three slender, armoured elves appeared on the horizon. Two of them still held bows at the ready, but the third had stashed her bow on her back, and instead had her hands resting on the shoulders of a young boy carrying a baby girl. Anders felt his stomach drop out at the sight of his children in the hands of the elves, and he slowly, cautiously moved his staff back onto his back, not wanting them to consider him a threat. Seeing this, the two elves holding bows paused, before slowly starting to drop their weapons in response, stashing them over their shoulders as well and returning their arrows to their quivers.

Unsure whether it was safe to approach, Anders took a cautious step forward towards the elves. When they did not retaliate adversely, he took another step forward towards them, followed by another, and then another. By the time he reached the top of the hill where they stood, they had already seemed to relax their posture a bit, and now stood slightly closed together, their hands folded patiently behind their backs. " _Ma serannas_ ," Anders told them, nodding in thanks, speaking what little elvish he could remember. The elves seemed unimpressed with his makeshift knowledge, their expressions unchanging as they regarded him with near disinterest.

"You shouldn't be travelling through the Weyrs by yourselves," the elf to his far left informed him, flatly. "You could easily have been killed."

"Lucky for you, we were on the lookout," the tallest of the elves added, causing Anders to look his way now. "We were told to keep an eye out for strange arrivals. The Keeper said someone travelling with children might be headed in this direction, and that we should make sure he arrives to camp safely."

"She said to look out for a human," the third elf put in, her slender hands tightening on Alastair's shoulders. "A human mage, travelling with human children."

"We fit that description, I suppose," Anders returned, trying for a bit of humour, his gaze flicking nervously from Alastair to the elf and back again. "If you can call us human." None of the elves cracked a smile at this, and Anders quickly looked away again, clearing his throat, embarrassed. "I appreciate you killing that wyvern back there," he added, trying for reverence instead. "I'm sure it would have eaten me alive if you hadn't come."

"Yes, it would have," the tallest elf agreed, no sense of irony in his words. "The wyverns do not discriminate. They eat anything that crosses their path."

"We will accompany you back to our camp," the third elf informed him, matter-of-factly. "To ensure your safety from this point onward. Our Keeper would like a word with you."

"No chance I can just take my children and go?" Anders asked, but was met with only stony silence as the elves turned away from the Weyrs again, leading Alastair and Madeline along with them as they started in the direction of the grassy knoll beyond.

* * *

The journey through the Weyrs and into the Dales was no short passage, and Anders could feel his energy flagging away as day began to wane into evening. Still, he kept his head up, his footing sure, not wanting to give the elves any reason to see him as weaker than they likely already did. Every so often the party would stop to allow the children to catch their breath, but the trek would pick back up again almost immediately afterward, leaving no time for even a short nap before they had to start moving again. Night was beginning to fall by the time the mismatched party finally came upon a small, wagon-ringed camp in the middle of a wooded glen, and Anders found that he could barely keep his eyes open as he followed the elves to a small, official-looking congregation. Two tall male elves, dressed in ornate leather armour, stood on either side of a third, much smaller female elf, who watched the arriving party with interest, her hands tucked patiently behind her back. She raised her brows as the three elf hunters approached with the children in tow, their tall forms still hiding Anders from view as they came to stand before her in a straight, dutiful line.

" _Aneth ara_ ," the Keeper greeted the returning party. "What have you brought back from the Weyrs today?"

The Keeper was a tiny elf, waif-like and fragile of features, though the regal white traditional garment she wore gave her a rather more impressive presence than her petite figure might have initially inspired. Her hair was dark, almost black, and had been tied up behind her head in an elaborate, deliberately messy bun, complete with a series of intricate braids and twists, with gold filigree interwoven into some of the more prominent plaits. An ornament of immaculate birds' feathers, each from a different type of bird, hung from behind one of her ears, with a single fang dangling from a fine gold chain at the bottom of the trail. The elves in the hunting party stepped aside, and as they did so, the Keeper finally spotted Anders. She paused a moment, surveying him, before her green eyes suddenly grew wide, her expression like a doe noticing a hunter for the first time. She stared at him like this for a short while, seeming frozen in place, before her expression suddenly settled, her posture relaxing, becoming almost too forcibly composed for his comfort.

"Greetings, _lath-la ma falon_ ," the Keeper told him, her speech flowing, her voice calm. "Welcome to the home of my people. It has been a long while."

Anders frowned, feeling the hair on the back of his neck start to prickle at the sound of the familiar voice, though he could not quite place where he had heard it before. "Do I… know you?" he asked, cautiously, narrowing his eyes at the elegant Keeper.

The Keeper hesitated, seeming strangely unsurprised by his question, before offering him a small, crooked half-smile. "It figures you wouldn't recognize me," she told him, giving a soft, silvery little laugh. "You hounded me day and night while we were living in Kirkwall, but now? Now you cannot even remember my face. Hawke would be ashamed."

"Merrill," Anders breathed, taken aback.

Merrill laughed again at this, seeming almost amused by his frightened reaction, before holding up her free hand, causing the chain attached to the ring on her middle finger to jingle faintly with the motion. "Relax, Anders," she told him, shaking her head, reassuring. " _Ar'din nuvenin na'din_. I mean you no harm. At least, not while Hawke's children are with you. Sweet _da'len_ … I wouldn't want them to have to see that." Letting her hand drop back to her side, she stood still another moment longer, considering him, looking between him and his two dirty-faced children. Then, finally, she took a step forward, pointing towards Madeline, expectantly. "May I hold the little one?" she asked, the practiced, steely composure of before chipping away a bit to reveal some of the old, excitable Merrill underneath.

Anders hesitated, a bit surprised by the request. He glanced around at the other elves surrounding them, making sure they did not object to him getting closer to their Keeper, before taking a cautious step forward towards Merrill and indicating for Alastair to hold Madeline out for her to take. Merrill immediately moved forward the last few steps, closing the distance between them, and scooped the baby up under the arms, causing the two hunters on either side of her to tense up before quickly relaxing again, watching her carefully. "She's… dirty," Anders warned, reaching out a hand to coax Alastair in closer to his side, still wary of the elven hunting party hovering around them. "We're all a bit dirty, honestly… after our trek through the Swamps."

"The Swamps?" Merrill asked, speaking directly to Madeline now, balancing the toddler effortlessly against her hip with a few assured jostles, causing the little girl to give a laugh of delight in response. "The Tellari Swamps? Don't you know there's a wicked dragon living in those Swamps, _da'vhenan_?"

"We do now," Anders answered, honestly, giving a humourless huff of a laugh.

"Your _papae_ tried to have you eaten," Merrill cooed, causing Madeline to give another giggle, pressing her hands to her dirty, rosy cheeks. "Tried to have you gobbled all up by the nasty dragon, didn't he?"

"It's a tame dragon," Alastair corrected her, before being quickly cut off by Anders pressing a hand to his mouth, not wanting him to get in trouble.

"It's… it was hunting something else," Anders amended, hurriedly. "I don't know what. It didn't attack our party, but I have no idea why. Sheer luck, as far as I'm concerned."

"Luck? No, no," Merrill told him, solemnly, shaking her head as she bounced Madeline distractedly against her arm, entertaining the girl. "Luck has nothing to do with it. That dragon belongs to a Witch of the Wilds. It does what she tells it to do. She likely did not perceive you and your children as a threat, and so left you well enough alone. Although…" Here, she paused, her brow furrowing faintly as she turned her gaze towards the darkness of the gathered trees. "It has been a long time since we have heard anything to do with the Witch," she said, her pink lips drawing in a faint, thin line. "She has gone quite quiet the last while. It used to be that we would sometimes lose hunters to her wiles, and only sent people anywhere near the Swamps to gather supplies when it was absolutely unavoidable… but we have been losing less and less to the darkness of the Swamps of late, almost as if…"

Trailing off again, her frown deepened, thoughtful, and she paused in her entertaining of Madeline as she stared at the woods, as if waiting, watching for something to happen, some sign of dark magic to appear. Then, seeming convinced that nothing would be coming out to get them, she turned her attention back to Anders again, taking a deep, reflective breath inward, before letting it out in a gentle, silvery sigh. "But, no matter," she told him, more brightly. "The Witch is of no concern to us now. The only concern we have right now is getting you and your little ones washed and fed." Turning away from him then, she began to walk away from the circle of elven hunters, causing them to part to either side to allow her to pass. Taking Alastair by the hand, Anders quickly followed behind her, casting wary glances towards the still-glaring guardsmen who stood on either side of them, not moving from their stony spots as they watched him pass, hardly bothering to conceal their disdain.

Catching up to Merrill's gait, Anders followed in time behind her, pulling Alastair along for a moment before finally picking up his son and carrying him along with them, not wanting to wear him out by trying to keep up with the petite elf's deceptively swift pace. "I would introduce you to my clansmen," Merrill told him, seeming not even to notice as he struggled to keep the pace with her. "But I don't think you'd like them much either, to be honest. They're all of the same mind as me, you see. They believe blood magic is not inherently evil in its practice, and that it can be effectively used to bring back the ways of the old Dalish traditions, if handled with utmost respect and caution."

"Blood magic is too much of a risk," Anders countered, out of breath, hiking his son up higher on his hip from where the boy had begun to slide down. "Have you honestly never had something go wrong since starting up this clan of outliers?"

At this, Merrill stopped short, turning on her heel to face him, nearly causing him to run into her as he ground to an unexpected stop as well. "That was always your problem, you know," she told him, adjusting Madeline more comfortably against her hip as she stared up towards him, candidly. "You never did bother trying to be agreeable, even when it would have benefited you to do so. Some people never do learn."

"I could say the same about you and blood magic," Anders told her, frowning a bit. Then, realizing he was doing the same thing again, he cleared his throat, shaking his head instead. "But… I apologize, Merrill," he told her, quickly. "You're absolutely right. This is your clan, these are your people. It's not my place to criticize."

At his apology, Merrill paused, before her expression suddenly changed again, and she smiled widely up at him, drawing her ankles together cheerfully, seeming satisfied at her accomplishment. Then, turning around on her heel once more, she started her light-footed pace again, causing him to have to jog a few steps to catch up. "There's a wild spring just a few stones' throws outside of the camp," she told him, pointing in the direction of the gently hilled woodland area just past the circle of landships in the main camp. "You can get washed up over there. The water's clear and the glade's secluded, but even so I'll be sure to tell the clan not to head over while you're there so you don't have to worry about lookers-on." Coming to a stop at the edge of the camp, she scanned the lines of assembled tents, the makeshift halla enclosure, the large, cheerfully crackling fire in the middle of the campsite, until finally her green gaze came to rest on the largest tent of all of them.

"That one is my tent," she told him, pointing towards it, indicatively. "Once you're all done cleaning off, you're welcome to spend the night in there. You'll have to head out first thing in the morning, since I'm sure my clansmen won't take too kindly to you staying the night as it is…" She paused again, sucking in on her lips, before turning her attention back towards Anders and Alastair again, her expression oddly apprehensive as she offered him a small, forced smile. "But you're welcome to any food, drink, or other supplies you find in there," she told him, giving an agreeable bob of her head. "To aid you and your little ones on your journey south."

Anders hesitated, opening his mouth, preparing to ask how she knew they were heading south, but then, thinking better of it, he closed his mouth again, instead offering her a short, grateful nod. "Thank you, Merrill," he told her, reaching forward towards her for Madeline. Merrill looked down at the baby on her hip, giving a soft, regretful little sigh, before picking her up and moving her into her father's arms again, allowing him to take her back. Madeline settled in quickly against her father's familiar hip, bringing her dirty thumb to her mouth and starting to suck on it obliviously. Merrill offered a crooked, almost pained half-smile at the sight, before clasping her hands together on her staff and giving a short, shrill little laugh.

"Shall I leave you to it, then?" she asked, before turning away to head back towards the camp again, leaving them to their own devices.

* * *

The wash in the Dalish springs was the most relaxing bath Anders could remember having taken in years. Despite the lack of soap to bathe with, he had figured out that the smooth stones in the riverbed were covered in a natural clay that could be rubbed on his skin and then washed away, leaving his body spotless and smooth, almost allowing him to forget he had crossed a blazing desert and a sickening swamp to get there. Once finished washing both himself and his children, Anders had dried them all off, before heading back to the camp to investigate where they would be staying for the night. Merrill's tent seemed much larger on the inside than it had appeared on the outside, likely thanks to the efficient way the interior titivations had been arranged to afford as much room as possible, and three makeshift blanket-cots had already been laid out on the floor for them by the time they arrived. The blankets of the cots were soft, downy, and stitched with ornate golden trimmings, and Anders was quick to push them closer together, making one large, single bed for them to share.

A low, wooden table covered with an ornate red and gold drape had been pushed up against one wall of the tent, a large, yellow-paged tome sitting open its surface with the pages still wet with shimmering black ink. The writing in the tome was a cramped, neat elven script that seemed to have been inscribed barely hours earlier at the latest, and a large, feathered quill sat perched in a glass jar of ink to one side of the tome, ready to be used. Anders reached out a hand towards it, curious, before deciding better of it and retrieving his hand again, letting it fall dutifully back to his side. Then, turning, he paused when he spotted a familiar structure sitting in the far corner of the tent, its polished surface looking deceptively innocent as it glittered out from its half-hidden abode. Anders frowned at the sight of the Elluvian, his grip on his daughter tightening warily, before his attention was suddenly pulled away by the sound of Merrill's voice beckoning them out of the tent to join her near the supper-fire. Turning away from the Elluvian, Anders followed the cheery sound of her voice, seating himself and Madeline across the crackling fire from her, accepting the clay plate she gave him, and allowing her to fill it with steaming stew from the pot hanging over the fire between them.

Despite not knowing what anything in the broth was, Anders still could not help but admit that it smelled delicious. Glancing over to make sure Alastair was eating as well, he picked tentatively at his food with his makeshift wooden utensil, carefully moving a piece of greasy meat to his mouth, followed by one of the snow-white potato-like clumps. He paused a moment, chewing them thoughtfully, considering, before finally swallowing them down and looking up at Merrill with a thin smile. "That's pretty good," he told her, indicating towards the stew pot. "I've never tried elven food before, I don't think. Is it all like this?"

"Not really," Merrill answered, truthfully, blowing on a piece of meat from her own bowl before popping it eagerly into her mouth. "We're scavengers, you know. Hunter-gatherers, always on the move. We hunt what we can and eat what we hunt. We try to be respectful of the animals and the forest, but we aren't so picky. Can't really afford to be." Bringing the bowl up to her lips, she took a sip of the broth, giving a short noise of approval and licking her lips before picking up her utensil again. "We don't just eat flowers and berries," she added, looking up at Anders with a puckish little smile. "No matter what Varric might have told you about us."

At this, Anders faltered, before a soft smile crossed his face, and he looked down at his own food again, poking at it with his utensil. "Varric, yes," he agreed, nodding. "I haven't spoken to Varric in a while, in all honesty. Hawke corresponds with him from time to time, but we were never really that…" He paused, trailing off, stopping in playing with his food, before setting his bowl to one side to look down on how Madeline was faring instead. "How's your supper, sweetheart?" he asked, pushing the cup of milk in her hands gingerly towards her face, but she simply stared down into the cup, balefully, seeming unsure what to do with it, before looking up at her father again with wide, amber eyes.

"Yuck," she told him, frankly.

"What? No," Anders told her, gently taking the cup from her hands. Taking a sip of the milk, himself, he hesitated, surprised, before making a face and giving a soft cough, covering his mouth with the hand holding the cup. "Maker's tits," he breathed. "That's terrible. How do you drink this garbage?"

"It's an acquired taste," Merrill explained, seeming unperturbed by their reaction. Reaching across the fire towards them, she took the cup of halla milk from Anders' hand, before reaching across to where a line of inconspicuous-looking jars had been lined up against one of the sitting-logs. Peeling open the top of one, she shook it, loosening its contents, before starting to pour what looked like a thick, honey-brown liquid into the cup of milk. Sealing the jar again, she stashed it back where she had found it, giving the cup a gentle shake before handing it back across the fire to Anders. "Warm that up for a bit," she instructed. "It won't mix unless it's warm. That should do the trick for her."

"Thank you," Anders returned, nodding his appreciation, before stashing the cup beside the fire, close enough to feel the flames. Letting out another, soft sigh, he stretched his tired legs out in front of him, noting the hole that had started to wear into the side of one of his boots before turning his attention up towards Merrill again, interested. "I didn't expect to find you living in the wilderness in a clan," he told her, honestly, causing her to look up at him again, raising her brows. "I would have thought you would have dedicated your time to helping elves affected by the war, after what happened in Kirkwall."

"I am," Merrill agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "At least half of my clan were elves displaced by war and prejudice. Arianni, from Kirkwall, do you remember her? She's part of my clan now." Reaching forward, she picked up the soup ladle, scooping another whitish tuber from the bubbling stewpot and dropping it into her claywork bowl. "I've all sorts here," she added, sitting back and starting to daintily eat again. "Elves kicked out of their homes or their clans for not adhering to a strict code of complacency… elves who dared to ask more than people were comfortable telling… I've even got some half-elves, too. Unwanted by clan and family, they were welcome to come here, if they were willing to provide a serviceable part of the labour." Stopping then, she gave a wordless exclamation, covering her too-full mouth with her hand before quickly swallowing and pointing towards the outer camp instead. "One of our best halla caretakers is a half-elf," she told him, eagerly. "He learned the skills of animal husbandry from his mother, a human. Too many elven clans are so obsessed with blood that they fail to realize the importance and significance of individual skills."

"That's…" Anders nodded, pleasantly surprised, glancing over towards his son again, who was busying himself separating the meat from the potatoes in his bowl in order to eat only the meat. "That's a good way of looking at it. Very progressive."

"I have a tailor, if you need your clothes mended," Merrill told him, pointing indicatively towards the hole in the side of his boot. "Or your hair trimmed a bit. It's gotten quite a bit longer since the last time I saw you. It used to be nearer your jawline, now it's… a bit longer than that."

"As is yours," Anders joked back, good-naturedly, tilting his head in her direction. "I suppose a trim wouldn't hurt, though. Just to put it back to where it used to be."

"How was your bath, by the way?" Merrill asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. "Was the water temperate enough for your little ones?"

"It was… pleasant," Anders answered, pointedly, glancing back down towards his food and pushing it around a bit with his utensil. "Save for the leeches we picked up in the Swamps. Most of them were on me, thankfully. I'll bear in mind next time not to go wading through murky water."

"I could teach you how to use blood magic to keep the leeches off," Merrill offered, tilting her head helpfully to one side. Anders faltered, his eyes widening a bit, starting to stammer out a disapproving retort, but Merrill quickly cut him off with a silvery laugh, raising her hands towards him and shaking her head. "I was only teasing, _lath-la ma falon_ ," she told him, good-naturedly. "I just wanted to see how you would react. You never disappoint. Always on the defensive, you are."

"Blood magic is nothing to joke about," Anders told her, reproachfully, reaching forward towards the fire to check the temperature of the honeyed milk. Determining that it was warm enough, he picked up the cup, blowing on it to cool it off a bit more, before tilting it gently towards his daughter's mouth, allowing her to drink from it gingerly. As Madeline drank her milk, Anders' eyes kept flicking back towards the massive Elluvian standing in the corner of the tent, the mirror clearly visible past the open tent flap, his brow furrowing deeper each time he looked at it, as if expecting something to come through the glass at any moment. "That thing makes me nervous," he told Merrill, jerking his chin towards the mirror.

"Then stop looking at it," Merrill suggested, shortly.

Anders huffed, unimpressed with her answer, pausing a moment in feeding Madeline to allow the baby to catch her breath and clear her throat, before carefully allowing the cup to her lips again, letting her have some more. Looking back up at the Elluvian again, he frowned, deeper, watching its surface, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck as the glass seemed to shimmer with a life of its own. "Is it safe to keep it uncovered like that?" he asked, turning his attention back to Merrill again. "Out in the open, unattended? Aren't you afraid something will happen to it? Or… with it?"

"I'm fully aware of what powers the Elluvian possesses, Anders," Merrill informed him, looking up at him, frankly. "I'm not a fool. I might have been naïve during my years in Kirkwall, but I've done my research. I know what the Elluvian can do, and I'm fully prepared for that possibility." Turning her attention towards the mirror now, Merrill chewed thoughtfully on a ginger root retrieved from one of the mysterious jars, considering the imposing structure, as if waiting for it to do something, to prove her point of her readiness to act. "It's a tool for my people, nothing more," she added, matter-of-factly. "I do not intend to use it for purposes that might draw undue attention to myself or my clan. I'm not that foolhardy. They trust me with their lives, and I'm not going to gamble with that trust for the sake of curiosity." Returning her attention to Anders, she reached for her staff sitting at her side, her dainty hand curling around the polished handle. "I've put up precautionary spells to ensure it does not activate without my say-so," she added, comfortingly. "As far as you and your little ones are concerned, it's nothing more than decoration."

"You haven't lost anyone, then?" Anders asked, turning his attention up towards her, sceptical. "To blood magic? To the use of the Elluvian?"

"A few," Merrill answered, forwardly, her voice raising a bit in pitch at the admission, before quickly returning to normal again. "But only a few. There will always be those poor few souls who cannot handle the dangers involved when dealing with blood magic and ancient arts. I do warn them, I always warn them…" Taking a deep breath, she raised her shoulders, holding them for a moment, before letting her breath out again in a deep, tired sigh. "They always tell me they can handle it," she told him. "Sometimes I disagree, if I know for a fact that they're not ready, but for the most part I leave everything up to their personal discretion. No one knows us better than we know ourselves, Anders. I wish my Keeper had done the same with me."

"Your Keeper only wanted to protect you," Anders reminded her, pulling the cup away from Madeline's mouth again, allowing her to breathe. "She only wanted what was best for you."

"And I loved her very much," Merrill pointed out, defensively. "But now she's dead, and I'm alive. She was too proud, Anders. I won't make that same mistake." Setting her bowl to one side, she turned her attention towards Alastair, who was quietly prodding at his potatoes with his utensil, not wanting to bother her for seconds. Reaching over, she wordlessly took his bowl from him, sliding the potatoes back into the stew and replacing them with strips of boiled, greasy meat, pretending not to see the grateful smile on his face as she handed them back to him instead. Then, sitting back again, she crossed her legs, resting her hands against her slender ankles as she looked up at Anders again, observing him, watching as he dabbed gently at Madeline's runny mouth. "I know we don't always see eye to eye, Anders," she told him, causing him to pause, before looking up at her again, wary. "But you can't deny we're alike, in ways. You've done things, I know you have, things you maybe shouldn't have done but wanted to do anyway out of a sense of principle. Things that were important to you despite the risks you knew you'd have to take to do them."

"I'm not sure I know what you're referring to," Anders admitted, guardedly.

"Of course you do," Merrill told him, shaking her head. "I'm not blind, Anders. I understand the dangers that go hand in hand with the use of ancient magicks. But I also know that the benefits have always outweighed the pitfalls." Taking another deep breath, she sat up a bit straighter, an excited light entering her eyes as she stared at him across the fire, a small, almost guilty smile beginning to creep across her face. "The discoveries I've been making with the help of blood magic, and the use of the Elluvian… they're beyond anything I ever could have imagined when I was living with my old clan outside of Kirkwall," she told him, letting out a soft, almost disbelieving breath at her own good fortune. "Keeper Marethari never let us question, never let us look for answers outside of those she could provide. We were stagnated, frozen in place by our stubborn adherence to principles of fear. Fear of the unknown. What I've learned here…" Smiling wider, she lifted a hand, indicating out towards the rest of the camp. "It could help our people in ways they could never have otherwise dreamed," she told him, enthusiastically. "I hope someday to be able to share what I've learned here with the rest of the Dalish…"

Here, Merrill paused, trailing off, the passionate smile slowly fading from her face as the light in her eyes dimmed a bit, her gaze drifting from his face back to the fire, lingering there for a thoughtful moment. "If they'd only listen," she added, regretfully. "So many of them are so afraid. So many clans live in so much fear of things outside of what they know. They don't want to listen. They reject our ideology, they… _hunt_ us for our curiosity." Pausing again, she frowned, worrying anxiously at her lip as she shook her head, sadly, lost in thought. "We've had to stay on the move since the mage uprising for fear of incurring the violent disapproval of other clans in the area," she explained. "They don't take kindly to blood magic, you see. They're like you in that regard. They refuse to give us a chance to prove otherwise. Too many of our clan have been killed by people too stubborn to even listen to our reasoning. It's a terrible state of affairs, but…" Taking a deep breath, she hesitated, before looking up at him again, offering him another hopeful smile, this one a bit sadder than the last. "I still hold out hope it will get better, with time," she told him, optimistically. "Until then, we simply have to keep moving, keep questioning. Keep recording what we've learned, in the hopes of one day sharing that knowledge, and perhaps making the world better for it."

"Hm," Anders answered, noncommittal, turning his attention back to the fire again. She was making good points, he had to admit, but the idea that she considered blood magic to be the best way to achieve her otherwise admirable goals was a detail he found it hard to wrap his disbelief around. Madeline yawned against his arm, causing him to look down at his daughter again, a soft smile turning up the edges of his lips as he watched her curl up comfortably against his side, sucking peacefully on her thumb. Alastair returned the yawn a moment later, and Anders looked up at his son then, unable to keep the fond smile from spreading as he watched the boy rub tiredly at his eyes.

"Father, I'm tired," Alastair told him, setting his now-finished bowl aside. "Can we please get some sleep? We haven't slept in days."

"I can barely keep my eyes open, myself," Anders admitted, picking up Madeline and turning his attention back towards Merrill, gratefully. "Thank you again for the food and the shelter. I don't know what we'd have done if your people hadn't come for us when they did."

"Oh, we'd have found you, eventually, I'm sure," Merrill teased, setting her bowl aside as well. "Likely as a pile of wyvern waste, but… we'd have found you eventually."

* * *

The first weak dregs of sunlight had barely started to filter through the misty grove by the time Merrill shook Anders to wake him up. Anders groaned, turning over in his sleep, not wanting to be woken so early, but Merrill simply sighed, grabbing his shoulder, and shook him again, more fervently this time. "Wake up, Anders," she instructed, sharply, leaning down to whisper right in his ear. Anders groaned again, sitting up from the bedding, and rubbed sleepily at his eyes, still too groggy to fully remember where he was. Then, blinking a few times, he frowned, squinting at the low table sitting against the wall of the tent, before suddenly remembering the nights before, the wyvern in the Weyrs, the dragon, and the painstaking journey into the Green Dales. Despite his struggle to get out of bed, Merrill was already wide awake, buzzing around the tent, packing every bit of supplies she could scrape together into the leather rucksack the family had brought along with them. Anders watched as she stashed a few of her mystery jars in another leather pouch, this one elven, and set it beside the first for him to take, before turning to look at him, expectantly, wringing her hands in front of her.

"I've drawn up a map for your journey forward," she told him, indicating towards the table, where a piece of parchment sat waiting for him, the ink still wet from a hand-drawn map she had clearly put together herself. "I've marked on the map places you should avoid. Places where there are clans less accepting of mages and humans. I've also marked places where there are dangerous creatures, so you can avoid running into any more of those, if you can help it." Getting up from the makeshift cot on the floor, Anders picked up Madeline, balancing her against his hip, before crossing to the low wooden table and picking up the map, staring at the markings she had left for him. Her handwriting was tiny, neat, and cramped, and he could barely make out some of the words, but the map had been illustrated with pictures of things she intended for him to avoid, making it easy to discern which ones were the worst of them.

"Thank you, Merrill," Anders said, turning to face her and holding up the map. "This is going to be really helpful."

"I should also warn you, if you keep going southwest towards the coast, you're going to eventually end up in Starkhaven," Merrill told him, hardly seeming to hear his thanks as she wrung her hands more fervently in front of her, biting down anxiously on her lower lip. "We've been keeping an ear to the ground for word on the current political climate… Sebastian still has not forgiven the wrong done in Kirkwall, and he now has an army at his disposal to right it. Be careful, _lath-la ma falon_. Do not do anything rash, for your sake."

"What does that mean?" Anders asked, curious. " _Lathella_ …"

" _Lath-la ma falon_?" Merrill returned, sounding a bit surprised by the question. She paused, stopping in wringing her hands as she thought about it a moment, before looking back at him again and raising her dainty brows. "The closest translation I can think of would be 'the one my friend loves'," she told him, honestly. "You are not my friend, yourself. But my friend does love you, so to me, you are the one my friend loves. And that makes you just as important to me as if you were my friend."

Anders hesitated, surprised by this touching explanation. Then, offering her a grateful smile, he nodded, thankfully, before picking up his satchel, handing the new elven satchel over to Alastair, and starting to head for the flap of the tent. "Anders," Merrill suddenly spoke again, stopping him in his tracks. Anders turned, looking back at her in interest, watching as she pressed her palms anxiously together in front of her, as if regretting speaking up at all. "During my time spent with the Elluvian… I have seen great evils within it," she told him, her voice lower, as solemn as he had ever heard her. "I fear there are terrible things ahead. Please, tread carefully, and watch over your children as best you can." She hesitated again, as if unsure whether there were anything else left to say, before finally lifting her chin and frowning down at him, her expression pleadingly sombre. "The world is changing, _lath-la ma falon_ ," she told him, truthfully. "Not necessarily for the better."

"The world has already changed, Merrill," Anders told her, frankly. Then, turning away from her again, he lifted the flap of the tent, letting Alastair out in front of him, before following his son outside and letting the flap fall closed behind them.


	5. Starkhaven

The journey through the remainder of the Dales was far easier than Anders had anticipated, with the green grass growing soft beneath their newly-booted feet and the sun beaming gently down on them between the thicketed leaves of the trees. Families of wild foxes peered out at them from behind rocks and the shade of shrubbery, causing Madeline to giggle in delight as she played peek-a-boo with the boldest of them, and small birds sang in the branches as they made their way to the edge of the forest, their path marked clearly on the map Merrill had drawn up for them. It was barely two days' time before the sight of a town reached them over the crest of a grassy knoll, and Anders found himself almost missing the peaceful quietude of the forest as they made their way down the stone-lined path to the quaint city below. The city was built on the edge of a waterfront – the Minanter River, according to Merrill's map – with a large, spired centrepiece Anders immediately recognized as a Circle tower rising up from the dusty road. The rest of the town seemed to be built around this tower, with the most elaborate of the houses built the closest to the keep, making Anders wonder if this town perhaps put some sort of reverential status on the tower itself and whether that meant the city held more respect for its mages, or if the city had simply been built from the tower outward and had steadily run out of building supplies the closer it got to the edge of the town.

Taking hold of Alastair's hand, Anders began to make his way through the town, trying to ignore the fleeting, odd glances he kept getting from townsfolk as he headed towards the waterfront. He supposed most of the people here were unused to visitors in their city, but none of them seemed particularly harmful, or even particularly suspicious at the sight of him. Most seemed merely curious, and none curious enough to stop him, even as he made his way onto the shipping docks, where he knew he had to look completely out of place, dressed in feather pauldrons with two small children in tow. The shipping dock was much busier than the rest of the town had been, making him wonder if perhaps this was the main focus of the town, and not the Circle, as he had originally suspected. Approaching one of the boatmen, he stopped, clearing his throat, hoping to get the boatman's attention, only to have the man continue working, apparently too wrapped up in his work to have heard the interruption. Frowning, Anders tried again, this time a bit louder, and this time, the boatman looked up at the sound of his voice, wiping his brow with the back of his hand as he let out a deep huff of breath, observing the ragtag little family.

"Can I help you?" he asked, cagily, clearly eager to get back to his work. His accent was light, familiar, and sent a small chill of recognition up Anders' spine, but he ignored it, keeping his focus on the task at hand.

"Possibly," Anders answered, honestly, taking another step closer to the worker. The man stiffened a bit, seeming wary of the man and his children, but did not make a move to object, allowing Anders to move a bit closer to explain his situation. "I'm trying to get to the Frostback Mountains," Anders told him, matter-of-factly. "I'm supposed to be meeting with someone there. I was hoping you could tell me the fastest route to the Waking Sea, and… perhaps help us get there, if you could. I've gold to offer, if that might help sway your decision—"

"The Frostback Mountains?" the boatman asked, frowning, as if registering this for the first time. "Who could you possibly be meeting in the Frostback Mountains? Isn't that where those mountain men live? The frightful ones who fight bears and beasts for sport?"

"I… wouldn't know anything about that," Anders admitted, unable to help but feel a bit on edge at the description. The only things he had ever heard of the Avvar had been from Hawke, who had told him that they were a solitary and religious people who built solid fortresses and kept to themselves for the most part. He had assumed them to be isolationists, inventors, religious intellectuals, people who preferred not to be bothered so as not to be harmed, rather than so as not to harm others. He supposed it was entirely possible that rumour had gotten the better of this simple trader, but even so, he could not shake the feeling that he had much less idea of what he was getting into than he had had before. "I only know that I'm to meet my wife there after the war," he added, steering himself back on track, trying not to let on that the boatman had shaken his resolve, if ever so slightly. "She said the Avvar would look after us, and… I trust her judgement implicitly."

"Your wife sounds like a brave woman," the boatman returned, nodding in agreement. "I assume these children are hers. I doubt she'd send you somewhere she wasn't certain of with that much at stake." Tying another knot in the rope he held, the boatman gave Anders another look over, his gaze moving carefully over his attire, sparing only a glance for his children before returning his attention to the man, himself. "Are you a mage, friend?" the boatman suddenly asked, causing Anders to stiffen at the question, distrustful.

"I beg your pardon?" Anders asked, his tone stilted, trying hard not to let on how much the question unnerved him. He had no idea what the general attitude was towards mages in this town, and did not want to risk endangering his children by being careless about his identity, even though he had no idea how the man could have guessed it simply by looking at him. He resisted the urge to glance back towards his staff to ensure that it was still cloaked, his hand instead tightening around Alastair's as he frowned. "I don't see how that's relevant," he admitted. "Do you ask everyone who approaches you if they are also a mage?"

"It was simply a question," the boatman returned, shaking his head as he tied another knot in his rope, pulling it tightly. "No need to get upset. You simply give the air of a mage, that's all." Tying a final knot in his rope, he tossed it aside on the dock, dusting his hands off before returning his attention to Anders and his children. "Mages are revered here in Ansburg," he explained, matter-of-factly. "I was simply wondering if you were one of them, as I hadn't seen you around before. You don't seem to come from the Tower, from what I can tell." Pausing then, he tilted his head, one hand moving to rest against his hip. "In fact, judging by your colouring, I'd say you hail out of the Anderfels," he told him. "Am I right on that one, too? Or am I simply shooting in the dark at this point?"

"You're very observant," Anders commended, feeling his hand tense around Madeline's chubby legs. The boatman shrugged at the offhanded compliment, rubbing his dirty hands together as he glanced over his shoulder towards the line of boats bobbing in the river.

"It's a trick of the trade," the boatman explained. "You learn to observe small details about people. Helps get the upper hand when dealing with buyers and other traders." Then, turning his attention back to Anders again, he stepped over the coils of rope at his feet, making his way over to where the mage and his children stood, before wiping his hand on his shirt and offering it out for Anders to shake. "Neill," the boatman introduced himself, shortly. "Good to make your acquaintance, friend. I run a merchant boat out of Starkhaven. I was just about to head back to restock."

"Starkhaven," Anders repeated, letting go of Alastair's hand to return the cautious handshake, trying hard not to show his apprehension at the simple word. "I thought I recognized your accent. I used to know someone from Starkhaven."

"Oh, yes?" Neill asked, letting go of his hand with a short, soft laugh. "I likely wouldn't know them. Starkhaven's a very large place."

"You might have heard of them," Anders murmured, eager for the subject to drop.

Neill nodded, rubbing a hand across the back of his weary neck, before wetting his lips and glancing back over his shoulder towards the ships again as he took a breath to continue on. "My job is pretty dependable," he admitted. "I take the goods from Starkhaven to Ansburg, where someone else takes it to Wycome. From there it goes all over Thedas." Turning his attention back to the little family, he raised his brows, letting his hand drop back to his side again. "I'd be happy to take you with me," he told them, helpfully. "If you like. Starkhaven is not a great leap towards where you need to go, but at least it's better than nothing."

Anders faltered, frowning at the offer, his hand moving to take hold of Alastair's once more as he considered the risky proposal. While the chances of being apprehended in Starkhaven were next to none, it was still a possibility, one he was not sure would be wise to take with his two small children at his side. Still, he knew he could not stand to be picky, especially with how much time they had already lost. "The offer is very tempting," he finally admitted, giving a soft, nervous breath of laughter. "I'm just not sure it's the best option for us right this moment. Do you… happen to know any other alternatives for paths leading into the Frostbacks? …Neill?"

Neill frowned a bit at the tentative rejection of his offer, bringing a dirty hand up to his chin and beginning to stroke it, thoughtfully. "Honestly, your best bet would be to go through Nevarra," he finally told them, holding out his hand again, earnestly. "Then, once you reach Nevarra, keep going southeast. That's the fastest way to get to Cumberland. Other than that, I'd say travel to Ostwick and take a boat down the Waking Sea until you reach Jader." At this suggestion, he paused, his hand half-curling in concentration as he pulled it in towards his chest, his gaze straying a bit as he thought about it. "It _is_ a much longer trip from Ostwick to Jader," he admitted, matter-of-factly, speaking a bit slower this time. "But that's the only way you'll be able to avoid a stopover in Starkhaven. I'm just not sure how two small children will fare on a packed ship for over a week, and it's only about a few days' journey by ship from Cumberland to Jader by comparison." Holding up his hand again, he pointed a hopeful finger towards the sky, getting Madeline's attention as he continued on with his explanation. "It's about a week's travel from here to Nevarra," he added, helpfully. "If you come with me to Starkhaven, you can take a short rest and then try to catch another boat from there to take you to Nevarra. If you would really rather not, however, I'm sure there's someone who'd be willing to take you to the other side of the Minanter so you can start to make your way towards Ostwick. It's up to you."

Anders huffed, jostling Madeline against his waist as he looked down towards Alastair, considering their options. Alastair looked up at his father in return, adjusting the elven leather pack on his shoulder as he waited for him to decide what they would do, until finally Anders turned his attention towards Neill again, offering his free hand to the man to shake. "Starkhaven it is," he agreed, half-heartedly, forcing a wary smile to his face.

Neill took the hand offered him, giving it a hearty shake, before jerking his head towards the boat behind him. "That one's mine," he told the family, indicating the largest boat in the row. "I'll be heading out later this evening. That should give you plenty of time to rest and restock, if you need to do either. Meet me at the boat when you're ready and we'll discuss your payment."

"Funny voice," Madeline suddenly spoke up, causing both Neill and Anders to look at her, surprised. Anders hesitated, hoping his daughter had not just blown their only chance at help, but Neill only faltered a moment, taken aback, before finally letting out a loud guffaw of laughter at the observation. Slapping a hand against the side of his leg, he pointed at Madeline, amused, before turning his attention back to her father, hardly seeming to notice the anxious expression on his face.

"She thinks my accent is funny, does she?" Neill asked, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye before propping his hands on his hips. "Then she's going to _love_ Starkhaven."

* * *

The merchant vessel travelled swiftly along the Minanter River, just as Neill had said it would, the crisp night wind catching in its sails, speeding it along towards Starkhaven. The trading crew was small, made up of just enough hands to keep the ship running, a precaution Anders figured was meant to keep costs as low as possible. Neill was a shrewd fellow, he had come to realize, though not necessarily bad in his way – he had offered the tiny family passage for only a few pieces of gold, a much cheaper excursion than Anders had anticipated, and seemed perfectly happy to offer them whatever bedding and food they desired on the short trip to Starkhaven. Despite being a professional outing, no one on board seemed to mind the children, with some of the hardened sailors even going so far as to pinch Madeline's rosy cheeks when her father would allow for it. In spite of the kindness he was shown, Anders could not help but be wary, but it hardly took a night of warm meals and peaceful slumber before he could feel his reservations about Neill and his crew starting to fade. By the second night, he had even allowed Alastair to join the crew on the deck to learn how to tie different knots, while Madeline was given her fill of attention by doting deckhands delighted by her limited vocabulary, much to her father's amusement.

It was late on the third night of their journey by the time their ship finally reached Starkhaven, and Anders felt himself roused from his sleep by a pair of hands shaking his shoulder to wake him. He groaned at the awakening, rubbing at his eyes, before reaching out a hand to rouse his children as well, only to find their bed empty. He blinked at this development, still groggy from sleep, but he barely had time to register what was happening before he felt himself suddenly jerked to his feet, his arms twisted behind him by a pair of rough, gloved hands as he was dragged bodily towards the stairs leading up to the main deck of the ship. He could barely see where he was going as he was hauled into the moonlight, his eyes having had no chance to adjust to the waking darkness, but he could hear Madeline crying for him from somewhere across the ship, causing him to twist violently in the grasp that held him, now fully alert and awake. "What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded, giving another sharp jerk, attempting to see who was holding him, to no avail. "Where are you taking me?! What are you doing to my children?!"

"We were informed that a mage hailing from the Anderfels had entered our city," the guard holding him informed him, frankly, giving a sharp yank on his arms, causing him to give a grunt of pain in return. "There's been a warrant put out for a man fitting your description. You're to be tried in front of the Prince. He will decide what to do with you and yours."

"That bloody boatman!" Anders spat, giving another jerk of his arm, hearing Madeline screaming louder at the sight of her father in constraints. "I knew I couldn't trust that snake – he's the one that turned me in! I'll kill him, I swear! I'll see him torn to pieces!" Digging his heels into the wood grain of the boat deck, he turned, trying to find his children in the darkness, yanking against the hands holding him as he searched frantically for a sign of Alastair. "This isn't over, Neill!" he shouted, scanning the darkness for some sign of the treacherous boatman. "I'll see you burn! I'll make you suffer for this! My children are innocent, you hear me! They're _innocent!_ "

"Too bad the same can't be said for you," the guard holding him returned, harshly, giving another hard twist, causing Anders to fall to his knees at the motion, letting out a shout of pain as he felt his arm threaten to dislocate in his sleeve. The shock of the pain was enough to stun him for a moment, making it easier for the guard to yank him to his feet and drag him off the boat to the waiting dock. Turning his head as far as he could, Anders scanned the group of guards for his son, finally finding him a few yards back, his arm in the grasp of another guard, his head hanging tiredly as he limped along, every so often looking up to check on his sister before looking back down again. Anders could hear the guards talking to each other behind him, the word 'staff' coming up in the conversation, and he had to resist the urge to turn around again, knowing that the sight of his stave in a stranger's hands would only serve to upset him further. His magic ability without his staff was still moderately impressive, but he figured it was not worth putting his children at risk for a fight he knew he could not win. There were too many guards for him to consider trying to take them out, and he knew that the disturbance if he tried would likely only serve to alert more guards to his location, and so, straightening his reddened shoulders, he marched along quietly in front of the guard, lifting his scruffy chin proudly high as they made their way through the sleeping town towards the looming, illuminated castle in the distance.

The castle of Vael was enormous up close, much larger than Anders had anticipated from all Sebastian's talk of minimalism and austereness in the eyes of the Maker back in Kirkwall. The walls were made of polished white stone, the spires accented and crowned in gold, with a pathway leading up to the massive double-doors of the palace made of smooth white cobbles, interspersed with semi-precious blue stones. The doors, themselves were made of heavy, polished wood, gilded with gold around the edges, and as they approached, Anders could see that it took the strength of two grown men to open and close them. The throne hall beyond was decked in red and gold, the golden fixtures on the walls glinting with candlelight, lighting up the hall as brightly as if it were the middle of the day. At the far end of the throneroom, Anders could see a massive chair of solid gold, cushioned with pristine red velvet, the backing of the chair moulded to appear in the likeness of Andraste, herself, her arms outstretched over the righteous seat, silently blessing whoever sat under her countenance.

Marching Anders up to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the throne, the guard holding his arms behind him pulled him to a stop, moving around him before taking a length of rope from his belt and starting to tie his hands together in front of him with it. Anders watched in silent resentment as the guard finished tying his hands, before glancing over his shoulder to see where his children had been taken. The throne room appeared nearly empty, apart from the guard who had been leading him and a handful of other patrols, and Anders began to turn on his heel, looking around for his children, only to find himself yanked around again to face the throne once more. Bristling at the indignation, he turned to face the guard, feeling his hackles start to rise, his hands growing warm with the threat of magic. "You can't do this to me," he hissed to the guard. "You can't keep my children from me like this. Tell me where you've taken my children, or I swear on the Maker's name—"

"You'll do what?"

Anders' attention snapped instantly back around at the sound of the painfully familiar voice, a cold, twisting feeling of dread filling up the pit of his stomach at the memory. He almost did not recognize Sebastian at first – though his tall, striking figure was hard to mistake, his appearance had changed dramatically since his days following Hawke around in Kirkwall. His hair was longer, past his ears, with temples faintly faded a premature grey, and a closely-trimmed beard adorned his face, a small, single spot of grey under his lower lip making him look much older than Anders knew him to be. An impressive crown sat perched atop his head, trimmed with velvet and inlaid with white gold and sea-blue jewels – the crown of a proper, ruling prince. An enormous, thickly fur-trimmed cape trailed behind him, falling to his ankles, nearly touching the floor, the heavy material announcing his every movement as he came to stand before Anders on the throne, staring down at him with cold sea-blue eyes. All the warmth that had once been in his face was now gone, replaced with stony, imposing regality, the lines at his eyes and the corners of his mouth making it clear that he was no longer a forgiving young hopeful, and not to be easily trifled with.

"I had hoped it might really be you this time," Sebastian told him, moving over to the throne and picking up a large, gold-tone pitcher sitting on a tray on one of the broad armrests. "In truth, I had hoped you might be dead after Kirkwall, but this is almost as good." Picking up a goblet from the opposite armrest then, he poured himself a tall drink of blood-red wine, hardly seeming to notice as Anders watched the action with apprehension, as if expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment. Finished pouring his glass full, Sebastian set the pitcher aside again, taking a sip of wine before turning his attention back to Anders once more, considering him thoughtfully for a moment before extending the hand holding the chalice out towards him. "Would you care for a cup?" he asked, derisively. "Something to soothe your nerves a bit before your inevitable execution."

Anders frowned, his gaze shifting between the encrusted goblet in the prince's hand and the man's face, trying to figure out if he were being mocked or not. Then, shaking his head, he shifted from one foot to the other, twisting his wrists a bit in his constraints, trying to make the ropes even moderately more comfortable. "No, thank you, your majesty," he answered, coldly. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't drink."

At this response, Sebastian faltered, drawing his cup in towards his chest as he raised his brows in surprise. Then, after a moment, he let out a short, sardonic bark of laughter, his posture relaxing a bit once more as he shook his head, unimpressed. "Oh, so you're a man of principle, are you?" he asked, disdainfully. "That's new." Taking another sip of wine, he turned, setting his goblet aside on the armrest of his throne again, before turning his attention back to Anders again and frowning down at him from the top of the stairs. "You think you're better than the rest of us?" he insisted, his now-free hand inching distractedly down the hem of his heavy cape. "Better than me? So sanctimonious, too good a man to drink on the same level as the Prince of Starkhaven?"

Anders frowned a bit at this, confused by the seemingly illogical jump, before shaking his head again, more insistently this time. "I never said that," he answered, truthfully, trying to keep his voice as even as he could manage. "I meant no scorn, your majesty. My reasons for not drinking are my own—"

"Why are you being so _polite_?" Sebastian insisted, cutting over him, sounding almost discouraged by Anders' lack of vitriol. Gripping angrily at the edge of his cape, he tossed it aside, turning on his heel and starting to pace in front of the mage at the top of the throneroom stairs. "Look at you, so self-righteous," he spat. "Your principle is a joke, and this act you're putting on, this… façade…" Gritting his teeth, he let out a sharp, irritated huff of breath, stopping momentarily in his pacing to hold out a frustrated hand towards Anders. "This isn't at all like the Anders I know," he told him, frankly. "Back in Kirkwall… you never stopped talking, never stopped insisting that you were right, and the rest of us were stupid and wrong. What happened to that Anders? Where is he?"

"That Anders had no regard for any lives but his own, your majesty," Anders informed him, his apprehensive frown deepening. "He had no one depending on him. Things are different now – things have changed. I'm a father now."

"So I know," Sebastian returned, his voice frigidly cold, coming to a standstill at the top of the stairs, his cape still swinging around his ankles as he glared down at the mage. "Your act of terror is not excused by the fact that you've sired children, however, even with the Champion of Kirkwall. Her failings of judgement do not excuse your own."

"I never implied they did," Anders answered, matter-of-factly. "I merely mentioned I had children. That does tend to change a man." Pausing then, he lifted his head a bit, taking a deep, thin breath in as he stared up at Sebastian, challenging him ever so slightly. "I believe you would know that, your majesty," he added, speaking slower this time, needling him intentionally. "If you had any children of your own."

Sebastian bristled a bit at this statement, his sea-blue eyes widening as he stared down at Anders, fixing him with a stolid, unmoving gaze. Then, looking away from him again, he let out a loud, dismissive huff of breath, shaking his head, before turning to look down at Anders once more, much more composed this time. "Do your children know that you are responsible for the death of dozens, maybe hundreds?" he asked, coldly. "I can't imagine that could have been very much of a pleasant conversation. If you bothered to have that conversation with them at all."

"I never told them about the Chantry," Anders answered, honestly, shaking his head and shifting a bit on his feet to keep them from growing tired. "They aren't old enough to know just yet."

"Not old enough to know, but old enough to die," Sebastian countered, causing Anders to instantly stiffen. He could feel his hackles rising to full attention as he straightened his posture, locking his jaw, his expression dangerous and keen as he watched the prince pacing in front of his throne. A familiar, tingling sensation began to bubble up in the back of his consciousness, a cool, ethereal, blanketed wave creeping up over his mind, like wary, eager fingertips touching a surge of pure light. It was a feeling he had not been privy to for several years now, but one he still somehow knew entirely by heart. Sebastian hardly seemed to notice as Anders began to visibly bristle, too distracted by his own angered logic to even consider him a threat. "How many children do you think you killed when you blew up that Chantry in Kirkwall?" he insisted, turning to face the mage again, his hand curling into a fist at his side. "Dozens? How are their lives any different from your children's? How would you feel if it were _your_ children who were dead for some mage's misplaced, contemptuous act of radicalism?"

"I would never let anything happen to my children," Anders answered, his voice dark, feeling as if he were treading on a bed of needles as he watched Sebastian pace in front of his throne, like a mouse watching a cat preparing to strike. He could feel the tingling sensation starting to spread slowly further downward the longer the tense face-off persisted, but he steeled himself, keeping himself in control, not wanting to give Justice free reign over him unless it was absolutely necessary. He had not needed the spirit's assistance in nearly two years, and he had no intention of letting him run amok with his mind once more as long as he could possibly help it. "Their lives are too important to me," he added, his speech stiff as he concentrated on fighting Justice back. "If I knew there was someone who meant to cause them irreversible harm, I would get them out as quickly as I could. I would not wait around until it was too late to do what I could to help them."

Sebastian frowned at this bold statement, the edge of his lip curling ever so slightly as he stared down at Anders, unmoved. "A noble sentiment," he told him, indifferently. "If misplaced and tragically hollow. You would do what you could to save your own children, but made no effort to save the children of others." Letting out a soft, scornful huff of breath, he turned away from Anders again, moving over to his throne and picking up his goblet of wine, bringing it to his lips for a drink before wetting his lips, thoughtfully. "You gave no warning before blowing up the Chantry," he added, staring down into his chalice, absorbedly. "You had no consideration for anyone's lives, anyone's cares, anyone's agenda but your own."

At this, Anders scoffed, taking a defensive step forward towards the throne, causing Sebastian to turn to look at him, his expression cutting, warding him off. "What did you expect me to do?" Anders insisted, taking the same step back again, not wanting to start any more trouble than he already had. "Should I have shouted it from the rooftops? Notified everyone on what I was about to do?" Holding up his hands, he shook his head, silently pleading as he held out his palms towards the apathetic prince. "I was helpless, Sebastian," he told him, honestly. "My actions were not entirely my own. I had little control over Justice at the time. Blowing up the Chantry like that… it was his idea. Killing innocents was never my intention. I merely wanted to send a message."

"Oh, it was _Justice's_ fault!" Sebastian exclaimed, unimpressed, his expression darkening as he gripped his goblet so tightly his knuckles began to turn sickly white. "Of course it was. How very convenient for you to have a scapegoat on which to blame your worst accountabilities."

"I assure you, your majesty," Anders answered, solemnly, shaking his head. "There is nothing convenient about it."

Sebastian scowled at this correction, his lip beginning to curl again in the start of a censorious sneer. "Why are you here?" he insisted, coldly. "To finish the job you started? To kill me as well, and rid the world of any remaining trace of the Kirkwall Chantry?"

"I did not come here to kill you," Anders insisted, letting out a hard, weary breath. "I did not mean to come here at all. I was tricked – swindled – taken against my will. My only intention was passing through—"

"On your way to Cumberland, I suppose?" Sebastian cut over him, venomously. "Intending to blow up the Circle Tower? Perhaps take out the Grand Enchanter while you're at it?"

"I…" Anders sighed, frustrated, his brow furrowing into a hard, vexed frown, realizing he would be unlikely to get a sentence out explaining himself without being interrupted for further accusation. "I had no such intention," he answered, slowly. "My only interest is in reuniting myself and my children with Hawke. My intentions are pure. My motives are simple. I promise you, your majesty, there is no ill will at play." Looking up towards Sebastian then, he fixed him with a hard expression, unimpressed with his pomp and glamour as he took a deep breath in, preparing to go on. "I was merely sidetracked, a fact not of my own choosing," he explained. "As such, I would appreciate if you would consider letting me go. I have no quarrel with you or your court."

"No quarrel—?" Sebastian began to ask, seeming more than taken aback by this request. Then, pointing towards Anders in repulsion, he looked up towards the guards standing watch at the far end of the throneroom hall. "Take him to the dungeon," he instructed. "Throw him in with the other murderers. I can't stand to look at him any longer. He'll face his execution in the morning."

Anders blanched at this grave command, his eyes growing wide as he took a few dissenting steps forward towards the prince, but did not even have a chance to respond before he found himself grabbed from behind and dragged a few feet back from the throne again. "You can't do this!" Anders shouted, yanking his arm away from one of the guards who held him, only to have it grabbed back again, jerked so hard he could feel his shoulder strain. "What about my children?! What are you going to do to my children?!"

"Your children are young enough that they can be re-taught," Sebastian answered, coldly, moving a few steps down from the throne to be better heard over Anders' struggling. "They will stay here, with me, in Starkhaven, where they will learn about the Chantry and the Chant of Light. Maker knows you likely never gave then any sort of religious education while they were living with you." Taking in a deep, slow breath, he turned his gaze pointedly away, staring at a portrait on the far throneroom wall as he twirled his goblet of wine around languidly in his hand, hardly even seeming to realize he held it anymore. "They're aimless… directionless, poor little heathenistic children," he added, his brow furrowing faintly, contemplative. "I will teach them right from wrong. They need someone to do that for them… Maker knows their father never could."

"Hawke won't stand for this!" Anders barked back, giving another twist of his arm, grunting as he fought against the guards that held him. " _I_ won't stand for it! Those are _my children_ , Sebastian!"

"And a fine job you've done raising them so far," Sebastian returned, his voice cutting, turning to look down at Anders again. "Your boy nearly bit one of my guards' fingers off, and your girl hasn't stopped shrieking since she got here. Behaviour like that is learned – it's _taught_. Animals begetting animals." Taking another step further down the throneroom steps, he lifted his chin, raising his voice, his cutting words ringing in Anders' ears as the shackled mage was dragged forcibly from the throne room. "They'll learn better, in time," Sebastian told him, icily. "Hawke will thank me. You'll see. Once she realizes how much better they are without you – how much better they _all_ are without you." His voice began to grow fainter with distance as Anders was drawn out into the hall, the prince's shrinking form still imposing, his becaped outline striking against the blood red décor of the throne room as the heavy doors began to close behind Anders and the guard. "You were never there for them," Sebastian called. "All you ever did was pursue your own interests, promote your own purposes. You were never cut out to be a husband or a father. I will rectify the wrongs you've wrought, and Hawke and her children will be so much happier, rid from the ideals of their terrorist father!"

"I'll kill you!" Anders shouted back, struggling against the ropes of his restraint. "I'll fucking kill you for this, Sebastian!"

"Not if I kill you first," Sebastian called back, before the heavy doors of the throne room closed between them with a deafening, echoing _bang_.

* * *

The hours seemed to crawl by like years in the dark recesses of the Starkhaven dungeon, the hollow sound of dripping water broken only by the skittering of unseen rats from somewhere within the walls. Anders sat in a corner of his cell, his back pressed up against the wall, his hands tucked uselessly between his thin knees as he stared unseeingly at the opposite wall, unsure whether to pity himself or his children more in their current situation. He at least would be given the release of death in a few hours' time, but they would be forced to endure whatever corrective teaching Prince Sebastian saw fit to put them through. For Alastair, who had shown some small promise of magic over the last year, that likely meant a life spent locked away in a Circle tower somewhere, never to see his family again except for short communal visits every few months. Mages were kept under strict watch by their Templar overseers, who believed that too much distraction from their studies might cause them to become wistful and rebellious, and, after Anders' own attempts at escape during his days in the Circle, mages were no longer even allowed to wander anywhere outside the perimeter of Circle walls, meaning that his son would grow up in the equivalent of a magical prison.

Picking up a stray chip of rock from the floor, Anders turned the jagged stone over in his fingers, pursing his lips as he stared at the trickle of water seeping down the opposite wall. Just then, the sound of a key turning in a lock caught his attention, and he looked up, gripping the rock in his palm as he sat up a bit straighter against the wall, craning his neck to see who had arrived in attentive apprehension. The unusually lopsided silhouette of a young woman could just be made out through the faint candlelight streaming into the prison through the open door, and Anders frowned deeper, unsure what to make of her, before deciding she was not worth his time and turning his attention to the wall again. He could hear her approaching, but he made no effort to look at her, instead merely listening for her to set his tray down before allowing her to leave once more. The girl seemed belaboured as she approached the prison cell, and she bent slowly to one knee as she came close, placing the tray of food just outside the perimeter of the bars before reaching up and knocking on one of the metal beams, causing Anders to turn around, begrudgingly paying attention.

No sooner had he turned to face her when he realized what had caused her so much effort – she had not come alone to visit him, and he could see now that she was holding Madeline against her hip with one arm, with Alastair trailing curiously behind her, hidden behind the folds of her skirt. As soon as Alastair caught sight of his father, however, he quickly jumped out from where he had been hiding, running up to the bars of the prison cell and pressing his face anxiously up against them. In return, Anders pushed himself up to his feet, rushing over to where Alastair stood and pushing his arm through the slats in the bars to get a bit closer to his son. "My boy," Anders breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "I never thought I'd see you again, either of you! Oh…!" Pressing himself up as close to the bars as he could, Alastair reached his thin arms in towards his father, wrapping his arms around his starved form and pulling himself in as tightly as he could manage. "Oh," Anders choked, brushing his son's matted hair back from his forehead, before pressing a relieved kiss against his skin through the bars. "Are you all right, Alastair? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm all right, Father," Alastair answered, speaking in barely a mumble, as if too proud to admit his fear of only moments earlier. "Freida has been taking good care of us. She gave us food a little earlier… even got some milk for Madeline."

"Daddy," Madeline observed, talking around her dirty fingers in her mouth, causing Anders to look up at her at the sound. Reaching out a hand through the bars towards her, he tried to reach her as well, to no avail. Seeing this, the servant girl, Freida, moved in closer to him, allowing Anders to gently pull Madeline's hand away from her mouth before starting to pet his daughter's soft hair, passing his calloused thumb over her forehead as he smiled out at her, as reassuring as he could manage. Madeline frowned at the sight of him, hardly even seeming to notice as he wiped her wet mouth with the back of his hand, trying to get as much dirt as possible off of her rosy face. "Stuck," she stated, matter-of-factly. "Daddy… cage?"

"Yes, my darling bird, it's a cage," Anders agreed, a crooked, proud half-smile moving across his weary face. "And yes, baby, Daddy's stuck in here. But not for long, my love. Daddy is going to get out of here, you'll see." Looking away from Madeline then, he let out a soft, disconsolate sigh, turning his attention to the servant holding his baby girl in her arms and offering her a weak, forced smile instead. "Thank you for bringing my children down," he told her, quietly, reaching out a hand to Alastair again. "That was kind of you. Kindness is so hard to come by these days, I… was starting to doubt it still existed."

Freida looked startled at this show of gratitude, as if she had not expected him to acknowledge her at all, but then, after a moment, she looked to the ground again, her cheeks and ears turning faintly pink as she shifted Madeline against her hip. "Prince Sebastian told me to let you see them," she explained, honestly, her voice barely loud enough for him to hear. "He said even bad men deserve some happiness in the eyes of the Maker. He said it wouldn't be right to…" Trailing off, her gaze moved to Alastair, who peered back at her in curious interest, waiting for her to finish her statement. "Without… letting you see your children again," she finished, tactfully skipping over the bleakest part. Turning her attention up towards Anders again, she frowned, adjusting Madeline in her arms as she watched him pet his boy's hair from his eyes, using his thumb to wipe dirt from Alastair's cheeks before pulling him in and kissing his forehead, whispering reassurances.

"You know, the way Prince Sebastian described you, you'd think you had horns or fangs or something," Freida added then, sounding a bit surprised, causing Anders to look up again at the observation, interested. "When he told us he'd captured the rebel mage who'd been tormenting his waking existence for years, I… I never expected it to be someone like you."

Anders smiled faintly at the mental image, letting out a soft huff of a chuckle as he looked down towards Alastair again, making sure he was still all right, before returning his gaze to the servant once more, his thin hands fidgeting between the bars of his cell. "Yes, well… looks can be deceiving," he told her, honestly, giving a wary shrug. "Just because someone doesn't appear disagreeable doesn't mean they can't be a horrible person in reality, and vice-versa. Some of the most loathsome-looking people I've met have ended up being some of the kindest and the wisest. And some of the most handsome, like your prince…" Trailing off again, he frowned, arching one brow as he turned his attention back to his son again, using his thumb to brush the boy's overlong bangs out of his weary eyes. "Beauty is only skin deep, they say," he added, barely above an undertone. "You can never know what monsters are hiding underneath."

At this remark, Freida frowned, her brow furrowing into a faint line as she tilted her head to one side, observing him with curiosity. "But you're a father," she countered, thoughtfully, seeming a bit confused. "You have two small children, and you take good care of them, from the look of things. It's hard for me to believe you're as bad as he makes you out to be when I can see you're a good man. At least as far as family is concerned."

Anders gave another small, light, almost humourless breath of a laugh at this thought, shaking his head as he let his hands drop from Alastair's face to his shoulders, before taking in a deep breath and regarding his son with a solemn, thoughtful expression. "I appreciate your vote of confidence," he said, still speaking to the servant, though his gaze remained fixed on Alastair. "I don't believe Prince Sebastian will be interested in how good of a father I am, however. He seems quite content never to forgive or forget past wrongs done, with no consideration for growth or change." He paused, considering Alastair for another moment, before turning his attention back to Freida, retrieving his hands from his son's shoulders to instead hang his arms pensively through the bars of his cell. "I suppose that's a Chantry teaching," he added, half-joking, quietly. "Resent and remember, in the name of the Maker."

Freida frowned at this bleak joke, patting Madeline gently on the back. Then, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was not being listened in on, she took a step in closer to Anders, taking a breath as she prepared to speak again. "You have to understand," she told him, quietly. "It's not Prince Sebastian's fault. Not really. Elthina was the closest thing the Prince had to a mother after his own mother was killed. Having her taken away from him as well…" She paused, adjusting Madeline on her hip again, before letting out a soft sigh, preparing to go on. "It was like losing his mother all over again," she explained, solemnly. "You had a mother once, too, I assume. You must understand the importance of a mother to her son."

Anders paused, considering her explanation, before letting out a soft scoff and turning his eyes to the floor. "My mother was… distracted, they said," he told her, frankly. "Not… all there. She would stare out the window for hours, saying nothing. She was a frail woman… quiet. Not right in the head. And it only got worse as I got older." Hesitating then, he stared at the floor, frowning a bit as he considered his words. "When I discovered my magic, my father had me sent away to the Circle of Ostagar," he told her, moving onward, solemnly. "And my mother, Maker rest her soul, did nothing to stop him. I'm not sure how she could have, honestly… she'd never done anything for me before. I don't know why I expected her to stand up for me then, when I needed her most." Taking a deep breath in, he paused again, his thin fingers twitching between the bars, before he finally turned his gaze to look up at Freida again, his expression stern but sincere. "I know… not all mothers are that way," he admitted, speaking reasonably. "Hawke is not that way. She is… good. Good to our children. She cares for them. I know she does. Which is why I need so badly to get to the Frostback Mountains, so they can be with their mother again."

Having said this, Anders fell quiet, allowing the weight of his statement to sink in, watching the struggle on Freida's face as she considered his compelling argument. "Can you understand where I'm coming from, Freida?" he asked then, causing her to look up at him again, her expression pitying, but conflicted. "I can't just give up and let my children be taken away from me. I can't have them be raised by Prince Sebastian to be servants of the Chantry, never to see their mother again." Then, leaning in a bit forward towards her again, he fixed her with a stern, telling expression. "You must understand the importance of a mother to her children," he finished, with slow, pointed emphasis.

Freida faltered at his argument, clearly taken aback by his logic, glancing quickly over her shoulder to see if they were being listened in on. Then, turning her attention back to him, she frowned a bit, clearing her throat, before taking a deep, nerve-settling breath in and reaching to her belt loop for her keys. "I'll likely lose my job for this," she told him, speaking in a low voice as she pressed the key into the lock, checking once more to make sure no one was coming down to check on them, to see why she had been gone so long. "I doubt Prince Sebastian will execute me in your place, but… promise me you will take these children to their mother. You must promise me that."

"Where is my staff?" Anders asked, quickly, gripping hold of the bars again, anxiously. "I can't leave this place without my staff. You must know where they've hidden it."

"They haven't hidden it," Freida answered, fairly, shaking her head. "It's propped up as a trophy in Prince Vael's throne room. He wanted everyone to be able to see it. An accolade for finally eliminating the rebel mage he had been searching for all these years." Finished unlocking the prison door, she took a step back, pulling the cell door open, causing Alastair to instantly run inside to wrap his father in a desperate hug. Kissing his son once quickly atop the head, Anders took hold of his dirty hand, pulling him out of the cell behind him before holding out his free hand to take Madeline from Freida. Freida seemed hesitant to hand the child over, but eventually did as she was indicated, making sure she was safe and secure in her father's arms before letting go of the child, herself, taking a wary step back and wiping her hands self-consciously on her dress. "The throne room should be nearly empty at this hour, save for the two guards who stand watch in shifts to guard the crown," she went on, causing Anders to look up at her again, attentive. "They should be switching out the guard very soon, though, so if you can get in and get out while the guard is changing, you should be able to escape with your staff."

"And if I have my staff, I can cloak us until we're out of the castle," Anders agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "That way we can get out without being detected. Perfect. Thank you so much, Freida."

Freida nodded in return, seeming happy with a job well done. Then, having finished her work, she paused, the smile slowly starting to fade from her face as she looked the little family over, seeming almost wistful as her gaze passed over Madeline again. "I… lost my own child during the Blight," she explained, honestly, her gaze locked on Madeline. Her voice was heavy as she spoke, and Anders could tell it was taking a lot for her not to cry at the memory, but he said nothing in return, simply waiting for her to finish, wanting to allow her a chance to tell her story, likely for the first time since signing on with Prince Sebastian. "She wasn't much older than your Madeline," she went on, sadly. "She was torn from my arms as I ran to escape… they said they would find her, bring her back to me, but… they never did find her. They assume she died, killed by the Darkspawn that attacked our village. I eventually had to move on without her. Find a new home, new work… but I never did have children again. Never could bring myself to do it, after her."

Anders frowned at the explanation, feeling Alastair's hand tighten around his at the mention of the Darkspawn, but he did not answer, simply watching her, waiting for an opportunity to speak. "I'm… so sorry," he finally told her, causing her to look up again, seeming a bit surprised by his sympathy. Then, letting go of Alastair's hand, Anders took a step forward towards Freida, causing her to take a step back in return, wary, as he began to raise his hand. "Don't be afraid," he told her, speaking gently, making sure she understood. "I'm going to use a spell on you. It's just a minor knockout spell, so I promise you won't be harmed. This way it will make it seem like I took you out with magic and stole your keys while you were bringing my meal down." Taking another step closer to her, he was glad to see that she did not flinch, allowing him to come nearer as he prepared to use his magic on her. "No one will be the wiser," he assured her. "You won't be blamed for my disappearance, and you won't lose your job. You've lost enough already without having to lose any more for my sake."

Holding his hand up towards her then, he frowned, sucking in on his lips in concentration as he focused the magic on her. Then, pressing his hand gently to her forehead, he released a rush of magical energy over her, watching as the green light coursed once through her body, quickly, before her eyes began to flutter and her knees began to give way beneath her. Realizing she was going to fall, Anders quickly reached forward, grabbing her by the waist with his free hand, before gingerly lowering her down to the floor of the prison. Then, pulling the keys from the loop of her belt, he stood back up, indicating for Alastair to take his hand again, before turning in the direction of the darkened castle, prepared to make their escape.


End file.
